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PRICE 50 CENTS. 


\W1TY FAIR SERIES. No. 1 . 

F'obriaarjr, 1891. 

SSUED MONTHLY. Subscription Price, $3.00 Per Year. 







PfflLIP 


HEHSOH, 



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M.D 


I 


BY 


;l 


Geopge Mastings, 


AUTHOR OK “A MOUKRN llON JUAN.” 

NEW YORK : 

EDWARD BRANDUS & CO., 

30 BROAD STREET. 





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Philip Henson, M. D 


A NOVEL 



GEOEGE HASTINGS 

-A.utlnor of “A Tvlodern Don Jtian.” 


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NEW YORK 

EDWARD BRANDUS & CO. 

30 BROAD STREET 
1891 


Copyright, 1891 

All Rights Reserved 


THE E. B. SHELDON CO. 
ELECTROTYPERS & PRINTERS 
NEW HAVEN, CONN, 


PHILIP HENSON, M.D 


CHAPTER I. 

Philip Henson — Dr. Philip Henson — walks thought- 
fully out of the publishing house of Wood, Griffiths 
& Co. in Astor Place. 

“ Three hundred dollars for a work of three years 
research! Ah, the New York publisher knows how 
to profit by the force of circumstances ! ’’ 

He stands for a moment beside the broad door- 
way of the big publishing house, in tlie full glare of 
the July afternoon, looking down at the rough 
leathern pocket-book which he holds in his hand, con- 
taining the money just received from the publishers. 
A largely-made man, tall and muscular, blue-eyed, 
blond and full-bearded as some Saxon giant of the 
olden time ; quick, energetic and supple in his move- 
ments, his whole bearing carries a suggestion of de- 
termination and strength. This suggestion is further 
emphasized by the determined set of chin and mouth, 
the latter being only redeemed from absolute severity 
by teeth unusually small and white and regular for a 
man. The most notable feature of the face, however, 
are the eyes ; widely-opened, large-pupilled eyes of a 
peculiar light blue, remarkable not alone for their 
peculiar shading, but also for their capacity and 
strength of expression. Taking him all in all, certainly 


6 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


not a handsome man ; decidedly not the kind of a man 
to take as a fashionable doctor of the boudoirs ; but 
distinctively a man, in the higher sense of the name — 
brusque, strong, determined, resolute. 

“ I will deposit it,” he continues to himself, still 
thinking of the money. “ It will look better to pay by 
cheque.” 

He thrusts the leathern pocket-book into his hip 
pocket, and walking through Astor Place turns to the 
right up Broadway. 

“ Three hundred dollars,” he resumes, still commun- 
ing with himself. “ A little more, and I could pull 
through. Can I do it now? We shall see.” 

It is a passing, curious phase of human character 
that it is precisely in moments of deepest absorption 
that the attention is most apt to be lightly, easily 
diverted by merest trifles. Thus it happens that crim- 
inals on the steps of the gallows, soldiers about to face 
the death-file, drowning men on the point of sinking 
for the last time, or persons in the presence of some 
great and imminent peril, often find their thoughts 
flitting, at least momentarily, to the most trivial and 
even irrelevant subjects. So now with Dr. Henson. 
While his mind is intently occupied with matters of 
weighty import to his personal interests, his attention 
is suddenly drawn away by certainly one of the most 
trifling circumstances possible to imagine — a pin lying 
before him on the sidewalk. 

Like a flash, all his attention goes out to this little 
shining object in his path. There comes drifting 
through his brain the legend of the man who picked 
up a pin, was seen to do so by an observant millionaire, 
who, concluding that a person who would pick up a 


PHILIP PIENSON, M. D. 


7 


pin in the roadway must necessarily be of careful, pro- 
vident disposition, forthwith took the pin collector into 
his service, which circumstance eventually led to the 
latter’s fortune. Now, Dr. Henson has no idea what- 
ever of being under the eyes of any observant million- 
aire ; he has no idea of practically applying in any 
way the story which has come into his mind ; he has 
no motive, no object, for his action — yet, down he 
stoops and picks up the pin. 

At that moment a small, black-whiskered man comes 
walking at a rapid pace up Broadway. It would seem 
a natural law of physics that the smaller the body the 
smaller the amount of space requisite, yet in the case 
of small men this law does not seem to hold good. 
The smaller the man, the larger the amount of space 
he invariably requires. This strange but invariable 
phenomenon offers no exception in this particular 
case. Wide as is the Broadway sidewalk, it is not 
wide enough for this little man and the stooping 
big one. Bang ! he crashes his right knee into Dr. 
Henson’s high silk hat, which drops to the sidewalk 
with a thud and a rattle, and with that mal-directed 
energy peculiar to a tall hat when it gets beyond the 
control of its owner, proceeds with a hop, a skip, and a 
jump to deposit itself in the gutter. Dr. Henson and 
the little man bound after the fugitive. Both bob 
for it at the same time, the little man dashes his head 
with a resounding thwack into the doctor’s, and then 
both rise and face each other, red in the face and 
out of breath, holding the hat between them. 

The little man relinquishes it to its owner with a 
polite bow. He is an exceedingly polite little man, 
and fairly bristles with explanations and apologies. 


8 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


But the mischief has been done. A watering cart 
which has passed up the street but a moment before 
has filled the roadway and gutters with a miniature 
flood and the hat is badly mud-besmeared on one side. 
Dr. Henson frees himself at last from the little man, 
and his wordy and vain regrets. Impossible to con- 
tinue up Broadway with his headgear in this condi- 
tion ! He looks around for a hatter. He remembers 
there is one not very far away, in Fourth Avenue, and 
turning down a side street, he makes his way to the 
shop he has in mind. The hatter has only fairly be- 
gan operations on the damaged hat, when Dr. Henson 
hears foosteps behind him and a voice addresses him. 

“Hello! Doctor; buying a new hat ? ” 

Dr. Henson turns and recognizes Herrick, a well- 
to-do pharmacist in Newspaper Row. Herrick makes 
the usual polite inquiries with much warmth. Her- 
rick is glad to see him. Herrick is, on principle, always 
glad to see anybody and everybody, provided it does 
not cost anything. He is a medium-sized young man, 
with a reddish beard and a curly fringe of red hair, 
surrounding a head prematurely bald in front, weak 
eyes, and an ingratiating manner. He has a large fund 
of small talk and loves to dwell at length upon trifling 
details of every-day life. He and Henson were at the 
medical college together at one time and know each 
other well. 

After retailing a good deal of news about this and 
that mutual acquaintance, Herrick urges Henson to 
attend a meeting to be held that evening of a certain 
semi-social, semi-scientific club, of which they both 
happen to be members. Several eminent speakers, 
he explains, are to debate before the club and 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 9 

the subjects selected for discussion are interesting 
ones. 

Henson glances at his watch. It is nearly a quarter 
to three. He must positively get to the bank and 
make a deposit, he explains to Herrick, tapping the 
leathern book in his hip pocket. But, the hat is not 
yet finished. Never mind ! He borrows one from the 
hatter, bids Herrick good day, and starts off. 

The hat he has borrowed feels strange and uncom- 
fortable. Although caring little indeed for outward 
appearances, he does not feel inclined to walk up 
Broadway with this hat, which seems two sizes too 
small and makes him fancy that he must look ridicu- 
lous. He accordingly turns into a side street leading 
in the direction of the bank — it is just as short a road, 
anyway. 

He has gone about two-thirds of the distance when 
he notices a commotion some little distance ahead. A 
crowd is gathered on the sidewalk, and a man who 
comes running along the street accosts Henson. 

“ Do you know of any doctor around here ? ” 

“ I am one ; what is the matter ? ” 

The man excitedly explains that a boy, a lad of ten, 
has fallen from a second story window and is dying, so 
the man says, on the sidewalk. An ambulance has 
been sent for, but it is very long coming. 

Henson hurries up the street, elbows his way 
through the crowd, and bends over the injured boy. 
He has certainly had a bad fall. He has struck on 
his left side, breaking the left arm. The bone has 
snapped with such force that it has cut its way through 
the skin and protrudes. The left side of the head is 
bruised and bleeding; the face drawn and very pale. 


10 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


In a few brief instants Henson has determined that 
the boy’s injuries although serious are not necessarily 
fatal. The chief danger is from sudden collapse — of 
death from shock. Quickly, but very coolly, he sets 
to work. He sends to the nearest drug store, and when 
the messenger returns draws from a small case a 
syringe and proceeds to make a hyperdermic injection. 
The effect is almost instantaneous. Soon the boy 
begins to revive. Then, taking the protruding end 
of bone, he forces it back beneath the skin, sets it, and 
with quick, deft movements bandages the injured limb 
so as to at least hold the setting in place until the 
patient shall reach the hospital. At that moment there 
is a clattering of hoofs, the clanging of a gong, and 
the hospital ambulance dashes up, dusty, mud-be- 
flecked and, as usual, very late. 

The little boy riding at the back of the ambulance — 
one of those very little boys with which most ambul- 
ances are furnished, and who bear the name SURGEON 
in gold letters on their caps — hops from his rickety 
perch and with the aid of the driver lifts the boy into 
the ambulance. The hospital conveyance then drives 
off with the patient, followed by the eyes of the gaping 
crowd which also gazes, half in admiration, half in 
awe, at Henson. A gamin in the front of the throng, 
addressing a companion of his own age, unconsciously 
voices the sentiments of the other by-standers: 

“ Golly, Snooksey ; warn’t it orful ! Did yer see 
thet lump erbone sticken’ out ; I wouldn’t a took hold 
o’ it for a fortun’, wud you ? ” 

“ Not much ! ” comes in a brief but expressive re- 
joinder. 

Not caring to expose himself longer to this species 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


1 1 

of admiration, Henson strides rapidly through the dis- 
persing crowd, and reaches the avenue. He is now 
within a stone’s throw of the bank. He looks at his 
watch. 

Twenty minutes past three I 

Too late to make the deposit ; the bank closes at 
three. He turns, walks rapidly back to Fourth 
Avenue, secures his hat, and goes thence direct to his 
house in Second Avenue, just above St. Mark’s Place. 

Upon entering his rooms, he thinks of the money in 
his pocket. Where would be a good place to keep it 
until the following day? He puts his hand to his 
hip pocket. His fingers touch something flapping and 
ragged. He quickly glances down at his side. His 
pocket is ripped, as if by a sharp knife. 

In an instant the truth comes to him. 

A thief has cut open the pocket. 

While performing his errand of mercy he has been 
robbed. 

The pocket-book is gone. 


CHAPTER II. 

It is late that evening when Dr. Henson enters the 
rooms of the Ethical Progress Club, in East Thirty- 
sixth Street. The rooms are crowded, but in a corner, 
some little distance away, Henson espies Herrick. 
With him are two friends : Halford, a newspaper 
writer, and Mr. Benwell, a merchant by occupation, 
but a temperance lecturer and social reformer, in 
general, by choice. Henson knows them both, and 


12 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


makes his way to them. He is hardly well settled in 
his seat when the orator of the evening reaches his 
peroration and in a few minutes later brings his dis- 
course to an end. 

Some general discussion by members of the club 
either in support of or in opposition to the speaker’s 
views follows ; and in a short time the meeting is for- 
mally adjourned. 

Herrick, accompanied by his two friends and Hen- 
son, leaves the club house and all four walk westward 
along the street. 

“ Pity you came so late,” remarks Halford to Hen_ 
son. “ The two lectures given to-night were both un- 
usually interesting. Of the two, though, I = think I 
enjoyed the first most.” 

“ The subject was? ” 

“ Woman as an Equal to Man. Mr. Prousby, the 
well known Woman’s Rights Advocate, opened the 
argument for the woman’s side. The reply presenting 
the other side of the question, was made by Mr. 
Garrison, and that’s the part I enjoyed.” 

“What did he say?” asks Henson, carelessly. 

“ He cut up the eminent Mr. Prousby’s argument 
pretty badly, and demonstrated very forcibly that in 
no field of competition is woman the equal of man. 
He showed that in music, an art pre-eminently within 
the scope of woman’s effort, all the great composers 
have been men ; and that in poetry and painting it has 
been much about the same thing. Even coming down 
to cooking, what do we find ? Why, that all the 
great cooks are male chefsT 

“That was all smartly enough said,” joins in Mr. 
Benwell ; “but I don’t think Mr. Garrison’s address 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 1 3 

could compare in interest with the one which fol- 
lowed.” 

“ What was that about ? ” again inquires Henson. 

“ ‘ Conscience as Man’s Guide.’ The speaker, it 
seemed to me, set forth with beautiful clearness the 
theory that Conscience, that profound interior senti- 
ment of satisfaction or dissatisfaction, was man’s best 
guide in teaching him to do the right and avoid the 
wrong, and thus bring about a uniform and universal 
creed and code of ethics.” 

“ It seems to me,” answers Henson, slowly, “that 
before you can hope to establish a universal religion, 
or code of ethics, you must first have a universal under- 
standing as to what is really right and really wrong. 
Ideas as to right or wrong differ widely according to 
climate and geographical location. For instance, do 
you expect the Turkish pacha to experience any 
twinges of conscience as he takes unto himself his 
hundred and twenty-third wife? It is the custom 
of his country. He has never been brought up to look 
upon this as morally perverse, and he certainly feels 
no conscience pricks. To come nearer home, in our 
very midst, how many divergent and conflicting 
opinions are there as to what is right and what is 
wrong ? No, no, I cannot concede that conscience is 
an instrument of precision suitable for the weighing of 
man’s actions.” 

“ What law, then, would you suggest for man’s guid- 
ance ? ” exclaims Mr. Benwell. 

“ The only law,” answers Henson, with conviction, 
to which man responds is the law of — Force. Force 
is, after all the first and last word in the philosophy of 
life. By Force, kings hold their sway over empires; 


14 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


by Force are the money chests of Capital protected and 
the hungry, discontented masses held at bay ; by 
Force, and by Force alone, are government and law 
upheld and the existing order of things maintained ; 
even in the household, analyze the source of paternal 
control, and you will find the primary factor is — 
Force ! By Force — or his superior skill in its applica- 
tion, which amounts to the same thing — is man king, 
conquering the animals of the earth and subjugating 
them to his service. Just as in the animal world, you 
find the stronger animals subsisting by the destruc- 
tion of the weaker ones, so in all the institutions of 
man you find the same story of the weak being preyed 
upon by the strong — in savage communities by virtue 
of brute force, in the more civilized ones by the 
force of organization, capital, money. Force, I say, 
therefore, is the great law of the world, and Will, 
which is Force’s twin brother, is man’s next greatest 
attribute.” 

“I do not agree,” cries Halford, ^‘with what you 
say regarding Will. I think Will is a much smaller 
factor in man’s affairs than is usually supposed. I think 
man is largely the sport of chance circumstances — of 
combinations of events. Our course in life is largely, 
if not almost entirely, directed by these . chance 
happenings. Desire, Inclination, Will, play but a small 
part in our lives. We drift, struggle as we may, in 
the current of Circumstance. A man takes the turn- 
ing to the right instead of to the left, or vice versa and 
he meets with something which leads to a chain of 
happenings against which, exert will-power as he may, 
he is powerless to contend.” 

“ There I differ with you,” retorts Henson. I hold 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


15 


that if a man only wills, and wills hard enough, he 
will come pretty near accomplishing the aims he has 
in view/' 

“But,” exclaims Halford, “what if he does not 
succeed in securing possession of that Force, which you 
have just described as being the greatest and highest 
motor in human affairs? ” 

“ If he only wills hard enough, he will succeed in 
possessing himself of it ! ” 

At this point they have reached Sixth Avenue, and 
Halford and Mr. Benwell, perceiving an uptown train 
approaching, hastily bid Herrick and Dr. Henson 
good-night, and run up the elevated railway steps to 
meet it. On the platform, Halford turns to his com- 
panion. 

“ There is a man,” he remarks, “ who believes him- 
self stronger than circumstances. Let him take care 
lest Circumstance crush him ! ” 

“ I was quite shocked,” observes Mr. Benwell, “with 
his views regarding Conscience.” 

Left alone with Henson, Herrick suggests that they 
board a down train, as he wishes to go to Twenty-third 
Street and take a cross-town car. 

“No, no,” objects Henson; “ Twenty-third Street 
is not far. Let us walk. It is a beautiful night.” 

“ I think it is going to rain,” remarks Herrick, 
doubtfully, looking up at the sky. 

“ No, I think not. Let us walk.” 

They start off together, Herrick sorely beset with 
misgivings, for he has noticed a decidedly suspicious 
eagerness on the part of Henson to be alone with him. 
Well-to-do, penurious, and brought in daily contact 


i6 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


with the Bohemian element of Newspaper Row, Her- 
rick lives in constant dread of borrowers. Whenever 
any one seems specially anxious to engage his atten- 
tion, he at once takes measures to edge away, asking 
himself if such an one is not about to propose a loan, 
and is consequently an enemy against whom he is 
called upon to defend his purse. In Henson, at the 
present moment he strongly scents a borrower. 

For a short distance they walk along without either 
of them speaking a word. It is Henson who first 
breaks the silence. 

I am glad the others have left us,” he begins, for 
I want to speak to you about a matter of business ; 
a matter of the greatest importance to me.” 

“ I knew it was coming,” groans Herrick, under his 
breath. 

“ Do you think this a good time to discuss a busi- 
ness matter?” he asks, hesitatingly. 

*‘It will do very well.” 

“ Suppose we make an appointment ? ” 

“ There is no necessity since we are together now.” 

Herrick sighs. He sees at a glance he is in for it ; 
that there is no escape. There is nothing to be done 
but to resign himself with at least a show of good 
grace. 

“Well ; I am all attention,” he replies, with forced 
politeness. 

Henson walks on a few more steps without speaking. 
He seems to be making up his mind how to begin. 

“As I have just told you,” he says, at last, “the 
matter of which I am going to speak to you is of 
gravest importance to me. Here it is in a word — if 
within the next few days I do not manage to get five 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


17 

hundred dollars, my furniture will be levied upon ; my 
professional career will be greatly injured ; some im- 
portant experiments, to which I have devoted years of 
labor and am now on the very point of perfecting, will 
be brought to nought ; practically, I shall be ruined 
— in the street. 

Herrick listens patiently, without comment, looking 
down at the tips of his toes, as if watching the flashes 
emitted by his patent leather boots in the lamplight. 
After a brief pause, Henson resumes : — 

“ You know, I believe, something of my life. As 
I once before told you, I am the son of a small farmer 
and storekeeper in the western part of the State. As 
a boy at the village school, I displayed what was re- 
garded as unusual aptitude, and the village school- 
master, taking me as his especial favorite, was fond of 
pouring into my poor old father’s proudly listening 
ears predictions as to the mark I would make in the 
world. He, poor man, taught me nothing of the 
labor of the farm or store, being determined that, even 
at the cost of denying himself everything, I should 
follow a professional career. 

“Alas! he never lived to see his plans carried out ; 
for, before even the form of profession I should follow 
had been decided upon, he died. Sinking the little 
property he had left into an annuity for my mother, 
I began to shift for myself by taking a position as 
teacher in a small private school in Buffalo. My 
mother, however, was not destined to long enjoy the 
annuity secured to her, for within two years of my 
father’s death she was laid at rest at his side. Her 
death left me without a relative in the world I 

“ Shortly afterward, I secured a position in a larger 


i8 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


and more important school, where the remuneration 
was somewhat more generous, and I applied myself 
zealously to the perfecting of my education and to 
saving such little money as I could toward beginning 
my career in New York, which I dreamed of as a sort 
of monster Mecca where men by dint of brains, and 
work, and will, forced their way up to fame and for- 
tune. You see, even in those days I had my ideas as 
to the value of Force ! 

“ Well, at the end of two more years, I had reached 
my twenty-first birthday, and I decided to make the 
start. I arrived here one bright May day, at eight 
o’clock in the morning ; a few dollars in my pocket — 
as strange and friendless a lad as ever wandered into 
the big city. I was directed to a boarding-house, where 
in a few days I became friendly with a young news- 
paper man — a poor devil working in one of the petty 
press associations down-town. Through his friendly 
assistance I managed to secure a position in the same 
establishment. I became proficient at newspaper 
work, and finally obtained an appointment as reporter 
on one of the leading dailies.” 

“ Quite an experience ! ” 

“ Yes ; and one not without its value. In course of 
time I was assigned to the newspaper’s bureau at 
Police Headquarters. I was on night duty there, my 
hours being from 5 P. M. until the paper went to press 
at two in the morning. This left me my days free. I 
spent them in looking well around me before deciding 
as to the profession 1 should eventually adopt, for it 
did not take me long to make up my mind that, as a 
profession, journalism, with its hard work and its 
anonymity offers but few substantial rewards to its 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


19 


followers. At first, I thought of taking up the law, 
but upon closer contemplation its pettifogging, its 
red-tapeism, and, above all, its glaring and manifold 
inconsistencies disgusted me. Medicine, on the other 
hand, based in its theory and practice upon scientific 
observation and data, possessed for me great attrac- 
tions. I made up my mind I would become a doctor.” 

“ Quite a marriage of reason, eh? ” 

“ No ; a marriage of love. For, if I had given any 
heed to Reason, Reason would have told me that to 
take up medicine when one has neither friends, con- 
nections, nor money is to condemn one’s self to a long, 
bitter struggle with poverty. Well, working at night 
as a police reporter, I pursued my studies at the medi- 
cal college by day. At the end of three years, I 
passed my examination at the head of my class and 
obtained my diploma. My position in the .exami- 
nation secured for me an appointment to one of the 
hospitals. For six months I was ambulance surgeon ; 
six months Senior Surgeon, and six more. House Sur- 
geon. Small as was the pay, it sufficed my very 
moderate needs, and I was happy in the opportunities 
for study and experience which my hospital duties 
afforded me. I think I should have remained there 
for an indefinite time, had the official regulations per- 
mitted me to do so, but these regulations limit the 
term of service to a year and a half and accordingly, at 
the end of eighteen months I was retired. 

“ I now found myself left to my own resources to 
make such headway a4 I could in the profession I had 
chosen. I had a few hundred dollars in my pocket — 
no friends, no influence. It was at this point that I 
came across a man named Cauman. He was a large 


20 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


dealer in furniture, who made a specialty of selling on 
credit. I have since learned that he made a point of 
keeping an eye open for doctors like myself, of small 
means, seeking to establish themselves in practice. 
They were pet clients of his ! Well, Cauman came to 
me and made a proposition. He proposed to start me 
in practice by furnishing for me a ground. floor in any 
well-to-do neighborhood I might select. His offer 
sounded extremely well. He guaranteed to furnish 
the floor appropriately, and, of course, on credit. 
His prices seemed, even to my inexperience, a good 
deal above the ordinary market rate, and his interest 
charges pretty high ; but then, he extended such a 
liberal term in which to pay. His total bill would 
amount to eighteen hundred dollars. I was to pay 
only three hundred dollars down, and after that was to 
have a year’s credit between payments. I was to pay 
four hundred dollars at the end of the first year; five 
hundred at the close of the second, and six hundred 
at the close of the third, plus the interest charges. 

I thought well over this matter before entering 
upon it. What was before me; what course could I 
pursue? I could return to newspaper work and by 
close economy eventually save up enough to start 
me in practice. This would mean years of interrupted 
study and tiresome delay. Or, I could seek a position 
as assistant to some doctor with a practice larger than 
he could personally attend to. This, again, would 
mean drudgery in another’s service, with little oppor- 
tunity or time for studies and experiments in which I 
was already deeply engrossed. Briefly, I decided to 
take Cauman’s offer. Two weeks later, I found myself 
installed in a handsome ground floor in the best part 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 21 

of Second Avenue, just above St. Mark’s Place. Here 
I was, with seventy-five dollars a month rent and a 
balance due of fifteen hundred dollars for furniture — 
not a patient on my visiting list, hardly a dollar in my 
pocket.” 

“ A pretty hard road to travel ! ” 

“Yes; and one not made any lighter by the ill- 
concealed antagonism of my professional colleagues, 
for doctors were thick around here, as they are in every 
well-to-do quarter. Whenever a new doctor puts out 
his sign, the cry at once goes up from his professional 
brethren in the neighborhood, ‘ What does this intruder 
mean by coming here ! Were there not, in heaven’s 
name! enough of us here already?’ And until the 
new-comer has succeeded in conquering a place for 
himself, and in thus compelling consideration and re- 
spect, he meets with little beyond almost openly ex- 
pressed aversion and ill will. 

“ But I cared little for all this, and at once set to 
work to conquer my way. To eke out an income, 
while practice was coming to me, I wrote special 
articles for daily newspapers and for magazines, and 
secured orders from various medical publishing houses 
for the translation of medical works from the French 
and German. By remaining in my office as much as 
possible, by being always at home Sundays and at- 
tending promptly to night calls, I contrived to grad- 
ually pick up a little practice. By sleeping only five 
hours a night, and undertaking every form of literary 
work I could secure, I managed to pull through the 
first and second years, paying at the end of each year 
the amount due my house-furnisher. But the strain 
was pretty severe, and I fell somewhat in debt in 


22 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Other quarters. In the third year the struggle came 
at its hardest. My practice had slowly yet steadily in- 
creased, but I had the indebtedness, which had like- 
wise slowly and steadily been growing during the past 
two years, to contend against. To come briefly to the 
point, now, at the end of the third year I find myself 
unable to meet the final payment to Cauman, and to 
pay a few other debts which have accumulated.” 
“Ah!” 

“ If Cauman really wished to be paid off, he could 
give me a little more time and I should be able to pull 
through. But he is not at all anxious to have matters 
settled in this way. Having already received twelve 
hundred dollars, he would prefer to take back his 
furniture to being paid the balance. That is his 
favorite plan of operations. He has threatened to take 
steps to seize the furniture. Any such movement on 
his part will prove most disastrous to me, for it 
will at once bring any other creditors I have upon my 
shoulders. To further complicate matters, the sum 
of three hundred dollars which I had received for a 
medical work upon which I had spent nearly three 
years of research, was to-day filched from my pocket by 
a thief, while I was aiding a lad injured in the street.” 

Misfortunes never come singly.” 

“ So it would seem. Now this is just my position — 
if I do not pay Cauman six hundred dollars before 
the close of the week, I am lost. I have a little less than 
two hundred dollars in bank. I have some moneys 
coming to me from clients, most of whom, however, 
are now away in the country and from whom I cannot 
collect before the Fall. Very shortly I shall receive a 
remunerative appointment as consulting physician to a 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


23 


large insurance company. A recent treatise of mine 
upon cardiac diseases has attracted the attention of 
the officers of this company and I have been promised 
the appointment when the Board of Directors meets 
early in September. Of course, any collapse like that 
with which I am now threatened, would defeat the ap- 
pointment. In addition to this, I have nearly per- 
fected certain experiments to which I have devoted 
years of attention. These experiments relate to the 
cure of cancer. I have, I am confident, discovered 
how to cure cancer in its earlier stages, and how to 
greatly arrest its progress and render it painless in the 
more advanced condition. This discovery, when per- 
fected, is likely to bring me fortune, — a name. Any 
sudden interruption in my experiments now would 
bring them to naught. Months of labor and patient 
waiting would be lost. This is my position — my des- 
perate position ! I do not know to whom to turn. As 
I have just told you, I have no relatives — very few 
that I can even call friends. This is why I come to 
you. You know me. You know that the Faculty 
always said that I had talent — that I was likely to 
make a mark. I need only five hundred dollars to 
save me ; to enable me to continue my career and 
reach success. Will you give me the aid I need ? ” 

Herrick holds out his hand. 

“ I am glad you came to me,” he says, shaking Hen- 
son’s hand with warmth. “ I am glad you thought 
of me as the friend most likely to feel for you in your 
present position, and to give you such help as he 
could.” 

Henson breathes more easily. 

“ Unfortunately,” continues Herrick, softly, and 


24 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


dropping Henson’s hand, “ it is not possible for me 
to do what you ask without breaking an invariable 
rule which I have made. There was a time ” (strange 
to say, although Herrick is still quite a young man, 
none of his friends can recall that period) when I lent 
right and left to everybody who came to me. The re- 
sult was I used to lose both my money and my friends. 
Then it was I made a vow to lend no more. It is a 
vow I cannot think of breaking. If I did, what would 
other friends, whom I have refused, say?” 

“ For that matter — who is to know ? ” 

My conscience ! ” 

They have just reached Twenty-third Street. A car 
comes along, going at a rapid rate. 

“ That’s the last car, I believe ! Good night, dear 
boy, good night ! ” cries Herrick, hastily, as he runs 
quickly across the street and scrambles on the rear 
platform of the car. 

Henson stands on the curbstone looking after him. 

“ His conscience,” he sneers, bitterly. His con- 
science ! What humbugs men are ! ” 

Slowly he walks westward along the street, going 
in the opposite direction to his house, not heeding nor 
caring where he goes. He crosses Seventh Avenue, 
Eighth Avenue, Ninth Avenue, and reaches the lumber 
yards near the river front. Still he walks on, until at 
last he is brought to a stop by the edge of the wharf. 
His foot resting on the string-piece and his body bent 
forward, he stands looking into the water, dark and 
restless, beneath him. Some good German folks 
hastening by on their way to the ferry watch him curi- 
ously out of the corner of their eyes. What is this 
big, respectable-looking man doing there at this hour 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 2 $ 

of the night ? Is he some Lebensmuede about to throw 
himself into the river? 

Why not? What better could he do ? 

This is precisely what he is thinking of, as he 
stands there watching the water flowing beneath him. 
A plunge — and there would be an end to it all — all 
this wretched, petty struggling which he has been 
carrying on for the past three years, and which has 
now ended by maddening him. To struggle hard, 
fiercely, almost against hope, for the attainment of 
some great and grand result, he could understand and 
endure that ; but to struggle equally hard over sordid 
trifles, it was disgusting — sickening. He has under- 
estimated, rather than exaggerated, the misery of his 
condition to Herrick, concealing the crude privations 
to which he has been obliged to subject himself to get 
even thus far. And now, it seems as if all this strug- 
gling, all these privations, are to go for nothing. And 
with success so near at that ! It is too bad. Would 
he have the courage to begin all over again ? Of what 
use is life, if Fate denies him all that ambition craves. 
Fate! It would really seem that, as Halford argues, 
Fate does exist, and that, struggle as he will, it over- 
whelms him ! Even this last blow — the loss of the 
three hundred dollars which might yet have pulled 
him through — points to this ! If he had not stooped 
to pick up that pin on the sidewalk his hat would not 
have been knocked off. If his hat had not been in- 
jured, he would not have turned down that side street 
and been robbed. Really, the chain of circumstances 
seems very clear. 

Since, then, he is destined to be always thus over- 
borne by Fate, why not give it up? He has been so 


26 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


much in the presence of death : life in itself seems 
such a little thing to him. Why not end it here and 
now ? 

He stands for a moment more deep in thought, when 
suddenly a shadow falls between him and the flicker- 
ing light over the river. What is that? He turns 
sharply. Simply a policeman, who has approached 
and is peering at him curiously. He understands — his 
actions have been such as to attract the attention of 
this guardian of the peace. He shrinks back, with the 
instinctive annoyance of a gentleman at having 
brought down upon himself police interference. But 
the interruption has done good. 

“ Thank you,” he says, quietly, to the astonished 
offlcer, and walks rapidly back to the light and the life 
of Twenty-third Street. 

Under the lamplight, he turns and looks back 
toward the darkness of the river. 

“ No,” he mutters, fiercely, between his clenched 
teeth ; “ I will not die. It is the weak ones who kill 
themselves. The strong man struggles to the last 
ditch — battles to his last breath ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

Next day, Henson calls on various friends, with 
a request similar to that laid before Herrick. The 
result in each case is — failure. This is no more than 
he has anticipated, but he feels bound, as a matter of 
principle, to leave no stone unturned. Late in the 
afternoon, he returns to his rooms, weary and heart- 
sick. On his table is a letter from Cauman’s attorneys. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 2/ 

The campaign against him has commenced ; this is the 
opening gun. 

Everything having now been tried in the direction 
of his friends, there is nothing left but to resort to 
what he regards as a desperate measure. This desper- 
ate measure consists of a visit to a certain money-lender 
named Bronk. He has heard Bronk spoken of as a 
man who lends on salaries of employees, on prospective 
inheritances, and even upon marriage expectances, and 
makes other loans somewhat out of the ordinary ; pro- 
vided always, of course, the rate of interest be also 
out of the ordinary. He is likewise said to be inter- 
ested in a matrimonial agency uptown, and other queer 
schemes. His reputation is none of the best. He is 
described as a sharp, shrewd, unscrupulous old rascal, 
who runs big risks for big returns. Henson thinks 
over what he has heard of Bronk. He is willing to be 
mos^ liberally bled, provided he can only gain a little 
time, and he concludes Bronk is the most likely person 
to help him in his present emergency. 

The money-lender, he knows, has an office in 
Twenty-third Street, between Fifth and Sixth 
avenues. He has not the exact number, but he starts 
out determined to find it. Arrived at Fifth Avenue, 
he walks slowly along the street, looking in each en- 
trance for the name he seeks. At last he locates the 
house, not far from the centre of the block. The 
entrance is rather a shabby one. On either side is a 
photographer’s frame, filled with photographs of dizzy 
looking damsels and rakish-looking men, and beside 
one of these frames is a small brass sign bearing the 
name, Bronk. His office is two flights up, in the 
back. Henson hesitates a moment before ascending 


28 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


the straight and very steep stairway before him. It 
strikes him that it is rather late to make a business 
call. He glances at his watch ; it is exactly half-past 
five. Will Bronk be open as late as this, or does he 
close at five ? Well, what is the use of wasting time in 
surrmses. He will go up and see. 

Walking up the steep stairs, which he notices are 
quite wet from recent scrubbing, Henson discovers an 
old woman, evidently the janitress of the building, 
who is at work on the stairs leading to the third floor. 
He inquires of her the location of Mr. Bronk’s office, 
and she points out to him a door at the end of the 
hall. Henson goes to the door indicated and pushes 
it open. 

Mr. Bronk’s quarters in the rear of the building con- 
sist of two shabby little rooms. The first is evidently 
the book-keeper’s or clerk’s room ; the inner apartment 
being used as the private office. As Henson enters, 
there is no one in the outer office, but the sound of 
the opening door brings an old man shuffling from the 
inner room. He is an old man of medium height and 
rather largely made, but terribly shrunken and ema- 
ciated. His face is very wrinkled and puffy ; the mouth 
is sunken and the chin distorted at one side ; but a 
pair of dark eyes, round, restless and keen, snap from 
beneath scraggy, jutting eyebrows of an undecided 
gray. His voice, in certain intonations, has the high 
shrill tones peculiar to boyhood and also to old age. 

“ Mr. Bronk, I believe ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ I am Doctor Henson.” 

“ I did not send for a doctor.” 

“ I know; but I have come to consult you.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 29 

“ Oh ! ” turning toward the private office ; “ walk 
in.” 

Mr. Bronk’s private office is in keeping with the 
outer one. There is a faded green carpet, very much 
worn in spots, a green baize side table, two chairs, a 
cabinet for filing papers, and a small, very old-fashi#ned 
safe. The only handsome article of furniture in the 
room is a large, flat writing table, furnished with plenty 
of drawers, and well-littered over with papers. In the 
centre stands a big reading lamp. Seating himself at 
this table, the money-lende/ indicates a chair. 

“Well, Doctor?” 

Henson broaches his business and explains his 
situation, not at the same length as to Herrick, but 
still sufficiently fully to make his position quite clear. 

“ Who is this furniture man ? ” questions Bronk. 

Henson gives the name. 

“ I know him. This business is an old trick of his. 
He has grown rich at it. How much did you say you 
had already paid him ? ” 

“ Twelve hundred dollars.” 

“ Out of the full charge of eighteen hundred, and 
interest ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Very pretty ! ” 

Bronk chuckles. This way of doing business seems 
to interest him greatly. 

“ And now you want to raise five hundred dollars? ” 
he continues, after a pause. 

“ Precisely.” 

“ What security have you to offer for such a loan ? ” 

“ The securities I have to offer,” replies Henson, 
slowly, “ are, I admit, somewhat out of the ordinary ; 


30 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


but still I think if you will look into the matter 
closely you will find that the loan is not so risky, after 
all. With this money which you lend me, I propose 
to pay off in full the balance due to Cauman, and 
transfer the chattel mortgage to you. The interest on 
th« mortgage I will undertake to pay regularly, and 
the principal I can pay off in instalments in the course 
of a few months.” 

“ What guarantee is there that you can so pay ? ” 

“As I have already explained to you,” answers Hen- 
son, “ my prospects for the future are excellent as 
soon as the Fall sets in. I have moneys due me from 
clients, which I can then collect ; my practice is 
slowly increasing; it is almost a certainty that the 
insurance company will appoint me to the position I 
have spoken to you of ; besides, my experiments are 
liable very shortly to take a most important turn. If 
I can only creep along until the fall, I shall then soon 
be on my feet.” 

Bronk listens to this explanation, his eyes closed, 
his cheek resting upon his hand. He gives vent from 
time to time to queer little grunts and sighs. 

“Hum!” he exclaims, when Henson has finished 
speaking ; “ your security, then, hinges upon prospects 
— prospects of the future ? ” 

“ There is the chattel mortgage which I give after 
paying off Cauman.” 

“ It is not enough. The advances on this form of 
security are always small — very small. It is one of the 
poorest forms of security to borrow on. Have you 
nothing else to offer ? ” 

“ Nothing ; except, as you say, my prospects of the 
future.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


3 


Bronk shakes his head. 

“ My dear sir,” he says, “ I feel bound to say to you 
frankly that I do not believe it is possible to manage 
what you propose. Personally, I should be very glad 
to accommodate you, for your intelligence and energy 
impress me with confidence in your success. I have, 
however, no money to invest in this way. In my 
dealings here I am only an agent acting for others, 
who are the actual investors. I do not really think I 
could induce them to accept such security as you offer 
— security dependent upon future prospects, more or 
less uncertain. There are so many doctors in New 
York in much about the same position.” 

Henson rises. 

“ You are going ! ” exclaims Bronk, evidently sur- 
prised at Henson’s abruptness. 

“ What more is there to be said ? ” 

“ Sit down, my dear sir. It is never well to be in a 
hurry in business matters. It is always best to look 
things over from every side. You have come to me 
with a proposition, and I have told you that I don’t 
think it can be put through in the way you suggest. 
I have not said though that your position is hopeless ; 
that it is impossible to find any means of extricating 
you from it. Let us see if there is not. Although 
I have only known you for a few minutes, I am 
much interested in what you have told me, and 
shall be glad if I can find some way of helping you 
out.” 

Henson listens in astonishment. What means this 
sudden interest on the part of this old rascal who, like 
Shylock, is in the habit of exacting his pound of flesh 
every time in business dealings ? What is he up to ? 


32 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


This remains to be seen, thinks Henson, holding him- 
self well on his guard. 

“Let us see,” resumes Bronk, “what can be done. 
You have come to me to say you want five hundred 
dollars. Suppose I find them for you — and I promise 
you to try, although it seems to me difficult, very diffi- 
cult — what will be the result ? How much good will 
this money do you? Will it put matters all straight, 
and enable you to pursue the important experiments 
you have spoken to me about, uninterrupted by any 
troubles, or worries, over money matters ? Will it en- 
able you to go straight ahead to that success which 
your ambition craves, and which. your evident talent 
gives you the right to aspire to? No ! You think it 
will, but it won’t. Other complications will arise. 
What you need is enough money to put you squarely 
on your feet, and enable you to make your way 
thoroughly unencumbered by money troubles. To 
manage this, I see only one way. It is for you to 
marry.” 

Although well on his guard, keeping a sharp lookout 
for any trap this old scamp of a money-lender may try 
to spring, Henson is thoroughly overwhelmed by this 
unexpected proposition — about the last proposition 
in the world he is expecting at this time and place. 
He cannot altogether keep back tEe exclamation of 
astonishment which escapes him. It is drowned, 
however, by the noise made by the opening of the 
door of the outer office. Bronk rises to see who is the 
visitor. 

“ Only my clerk,” he says, returning to his seat. 

The clerk enters the private office ; he has evidently 
something to say. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 33 

“ One moment — excuse me ! ’’ exclaims Bronk, turn- 
ing to his employee. 

“ I have collected from both those parties,” says 
the clerk. “ Had a pretty hard time with Roberts, 
though. Two hundred and seventy dollars in all.” 

He draws from his pocket a roll of bills and counts 
them out on the table. Carefully the old man counts 
them over after him. 

Enter it up in the books,” he says, taking the 
money over to the safe. 

Henson carelessly notices that it is a very old safe, 
originally made to lock with a key, and to which, as 
further security, a combination lock of modern design 
has been subsequently added. The combination is 
apparently not used in the daytime, for the old man 
draws from his pocket a large key with which he 
proceeds to unlock the safe. 

“ By the way, Daniel,” he says to the clerk, as he 
closes the safe after depositing the bills, “ before you 
go, you might just get off the letters to those parties 
to be written to.” 

The clerk, a surly young man, steps to the door 
of the private office. 

“ To-night ? ” he asks. 

“ Yes ; it will not take long.” 

“Not much,” retorts the clerk, with great exaspera- 
tion. “ It is nearly six o’clock, and it was agreed I 
should get away at five this month. I mean to, too.” 

“ What !” cries the old man, raising his hand with 
a furious gesture. “What! you dare to talk to me 
like that 1 ” 

“ Yes, sir,” answers the clerk, doggedly, “ and I 
mean what I say.” 


34 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


The old money-lender seems beside himself with 
rage. He looks about him as if in search of some ob- 
ject to hurl at the head of the offending employee. 

“ You scamp ! You scoundrel ! ” he shouts. 

“ Don’t you call me any names, Mr. Bronk,” says 
the clerk, more sullenly than ever. “Two can play 
at that game. If I don’t suit you. I’m ready and 
willing to go — right now — right this instant ! ” 

Suddenly the old man seems to cool down. 

“Yes,” continues the clerk, “I am ready to go 
right now. I think I do enough work for eight dollars 
a week. You promised to raise me on the first, and 
you didn’t do it. You then promised I’d get off at 
five, and now you don’t want to do that. Now, sir, 
I just want to say this. Either I get off at five, or I 
leave ! ” 

By this time the money-lender’s anger has com- 
pletely simmered down. He evidently does not want 
to lose this eight dollar clerk, who might be difficult 
to replace. 

“ There, there ! ” he says, “ I did not think it was 
so late ; you may go now. Attend to the letters in 
the morning.” 

Triumphantly the clerk departs, and the old man 
returns to his seat at his desk. 

“ One has to put up with a good deal from these 
young men,” he remarks to Henson. “ Youth is always 
so impetuous. I suppose I shall have to let him go at 
five in future, or lose him. I don’t want to lose him, 
I confess. I never had a better collector than Daniel 
— they can’t put him off with excuses. It’s so hard, 
too, to find young men with reasonable views as to 
salary, and who can give bonded security at that.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


35 


Henson nods politely, and makes no comment. He 
is surprised to find this old man in the habit of giving 
way to such fits of rage. Avarice is, after all, a 
wonderful passion, he thinks to himself ; it can even 
conquer anger. 

“ Never mind him, though,” continues Bronk. 
“ Let us come back to what we were talking about. 
Let me see ! I was saying, my dear sir, that about 
the only way for you to get around these troubles is 
to make a good marriage — one that will place a nice 
round sum of money at your disposal and put you 
once and for good on your feet.” 

“ But,” objects Henson, “ would it not be sheer 
madness for me to think of marrying just at this time 
when I have neither income, position — 'hardly even a 
home to offer a wife? ” 

“ But your future — that future of which you spoke 
just now so confidently. You are not going back on 
that?” 

“Not fora moment! I have absolute confidence 
in the future, provided I can only get over these pre- 
sent miserable money troubles. Still, mere future 
prospects, in the absence of anything else, are poor 
things to offer — so poor, in fact, that you have just 
now refused to lend me the small sum of five hundred 
dollars on them. You surely do not expect me, then, 
to offer them as a sole inducement to a wife ? ” 

“ Matrimony and money-lending are • two very 
different things,” answers Bronk, with a grimace. “ I 
want to make you understand this, — a loan such as 
you talk of is only going to help you temporarily. 
It won't be enough to put you fairly on your feet, and 
before long you will find yourself in further dififi- 


36 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

culties. On the other hand, a good marriage will fix 
everything for you right away and put you in a posi- 
tion to properly carry through your plans.” 

“But,” exclaims Henson, somewhat impatiently; 
“ marry whom — marry what ? Suppose I have never 
even thought of marriage ? ” 

“ Well, suppose you think of it now?” 

“ And who is the lady to be ? ” 

“ Suppose I find her for you?” 

“ What— ! ” 

“ You seem surprised.” 

“Well — I am — just a little.” 

“ My dear sir, let me explain this matter to you 
as clearly as I can. Among my acquaintances is an 
elderly lady, of good family, whom I have known 
pretty well all my life. She is the widow of a once 
widely known shirt manufacturer, whose name was 
largely before the public in his business capacity some 
years ago, and who died leaving his wife a well-rounded 
fortune. The daughter of this old lady, a beautiful 
woman gifted with great histrionic talents, insisted, 
with strange perversity, in going on the stage, in 
which profession she has attained some celebrity. As 
a result of a marriage she contracted — somewhere out 
West, I believe — a daughter was born, who grew up a 
charming girl, inheriting all her mother’s gifts of 
talent and beauty. Educated at a fashionable convent, 
all went well until her eighteenth year, when her 
mother conceived the foolish idea of taking her tem- 
porarily out of the grandmother’s care to go on a 
short visit to her. Thrown into the midst of the gay, 
frivolous company surrounding the actress, the young 
girl, thoughtless and inexperienced, was led into an 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


37 


act ,of folly. She eloped with an actor — a dissipated 
young fellow, who fortunately drank himself to death 
within eighteen months afterward. The poor old 
grandmother had, in mean time, retaken charge of 
the foolish girl and also of the little boy— a dear little 
fellow — born of this unfortunate — ah — union.” 

Bronk pauses, and claps his hand to his jaw, his 
face contorting painfully. 

“You are in pain?” asks Henson. 

“ Yes — neuralgia in my gums — I suffer from it hor- 
ribly. Excuse me for giving way to it. I know there 
is nothing so wearisome as other people’s ailments ” 

“ Not to a doctor, anyway,” answers Henson. 

“ Well, never mind that, it has passed away now. I 
was going to say, my dear sir, that the grandmother 
is desirous of finding a good husband — some reliable, 
respectable man in business, or professional life — for 
her grand-daughter, who would really be a most 
desirable match but for this one unlucky episode. As 
an inducement to marriage, she offers to give the 
bridegroom ten thousand dollars in cash down, my 
dear sir, on the wedding day, and to settle on the bride 
an income of five thousand dollars a year. Could 
anything be more liberal and satisfactory. Still one 
thing more. When you get to know me better, you will 
find that I always make a point of being very frank ; 
of giving the bad side as well as the good ; of having 
everything open and above board. Therefore it is 
that I tell you all in the case, concealing nothing. As 
I have already said, the young actor in question was a 
dissipated young fellow, addicted to drink. These 
habits of intemperance, he — ah — transmitted to some 
degree to his unfortunate young companion. I have 


38 


PHILIP HENSON, M. t). 


every reason to believe that she has already largely 
overcome these — ah — regrettable habits, but — ah — 
should it be otherwise, you, as a doctor, would readi* 
know how to cure her of them.” 

“ You think so ? ” 

“Not a doubt of it! If, however, you should not 
find this possible, you will only have to abandon her 
to her vice, which would doubtless carry her off in 
short order, and I think I cai> safely guarantee to 
have the marriage settlements drawn in such a way 
as, in the event of her death within the next ten 
years, you will not be a pecuniary loser by her demise. 
This is the whole case in a nutshell, my dear sir. 
Have I made myself clear ? ” 

“ Perfectly— perfectly — nothing could be more so! ” 
If not, it is the fault of this horrible neuralgia, 
which paralyzes me.” 

I Once more, with a grimace he puts his hand to his 
jaw and groans. 

“ What is the cause of your neuralgia? ” questions 
Henson, with professional interest. “ Have you any- 
thing the matter with your teeth? ” 

“Yes — to tell the truth they are all out of order.” 

“ Have you had advice?” 

“No; as yet I have consulted neither doctor nor 
dentist. Perhaps a little later on I may do so.” 

As he talks, Henson examines him attentively and 
discovers in him evidences of a recent great falling 
away ; his clothes bag so fearfully that they seem to 
have been made for a man twice his size ; his skin 
is of a strange color, with peculiar blotches here and 
there. Diabetic, thinks Henson, diabetic to the last 
degree. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


39 


“ Will you let me see your mouth ? ” he asks. I 
may perhaps be able to do something to relieve those 
pains.” 

He rises from his chair and bends over the money- 
lender. His examination is short. 

“You find your mouth and lips very much parched 
at times, do you not ? ” he asks. 

“ Yes.” 

“You suffer a good deal from thirst?*' 

“ Terribly.” 

“ Do you sleep well ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ You have trouble with your sight ?” 

“ Yes ; so much so that I have been obliged to get 
this lamp,” pointing to the large lamp on the desk. 
“ I have to use it whenever the day is not very clear.” 

“ Do you eat well ? ” 

“ Enormously ; but the more I eat the thinner I get. 
I am becoming a regular skeleton.” 

“ I see you have a number of scars on the back of 
your neck? They are the marks of carbuncles, I pre- 
sume ? ” 

“ Yes, bother them ! A lot of trouble they gave 
me, too. Well, one must expect to have some little 
ailments at sixty-three. There is nothing serious in 
these carbuncles, is there ^ ” 

“ I think we can avoid any serious consequences in 
that direction, if you will follow a line of diet which I 
will lay out for you. As for the neuralgia, I will 
write you a prescription which will stop that.” 

“ Much obliged. I will have it made up at once. 

Now, tell me, what is your answer to the proposi- 
tion I have just made to you ? ” 


40 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

Oh — yes ! with regard to that, I should want to 
think it over.” 

“Nothing could be more reasonable. There is no 
need of haste.” 

“ Where there is need of haste, though, is in my 
case. The first thing I know, Cauman will sweep 
down upon me and — you know the rest.” 

“ No, no ; don’t be alarmed. Things won’t go 
quite so fast now. I am going to take charge of this 
matter for you. My lawyer is in this building 
and to-morrow he and I will fix up a plan which 
will throw a few obstacles in the path of this 
good Mr. Cauman. In any case, I promise you to 
delay matters for the present. Come to me to- 
morrow and we can talk over what shall next be 
done.” 

“ At what hour? ” 

“The same as you called to-day. It is the time 
when I am least busy, and we shall be least liable to 
interruption.” 

Henson draws out his watch and rises to go. 

“ What is the time ? ” asks Bronk. 

“Twelve minutes past six.” 

“As late as that! We must hurry up, or we shall 
have to hunt up the janitress to let us out of the 
building.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“Yes ; most of the offices close at five ; only a few 
of us remain later. The building is kept open for us 
until six, and at fifteen minutes past the janitress 
locks up for the night. I had to call her down the 
other night to let me out.” 

As he speaks, Bronk locks the safe and closes the 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


41 


office windows and, taking his hat, accompanies Hen- 
son down-stairs. On the sidewalk they bid each other 
good-night. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Although little experienced in business matters, 
Henson does not fail . to see clearly that it is not at all 
in the line of Bronk’s policy to advance him' the loan 
desired. He perceives that it is, on the contrary, far 
more to Bronk’s interest to keep him in a position of 
helplessness and dependency. In this way, the 
money-lender of course argues, he will be able to so 
much the better bend his man to his purposes. 

“His plan is simple enough!” mutters Henson to 
himself, as he walks along. “ He undertakes to keep 
Cauinan off for a time, while he tries what he can do 
with me in the way of making a match for his ‘ charm- 
ing young lady,’ who has had an adventure and who is 
addicted to drink. A pretty game ! ’* 

Still, he is glad to make use of the cunning of this 
wily old scamp in fighting off that other rascal, Cau- 
man. It is always so much time gained. At the 
eleventh hour something may turn up to save him. 
Perhaps Cauman finding himself opposed to adversa- 
ries as sharp as himself, may show a disposition to be 
reasonable and compromise matters. Well ; but this, 
again, will not suit Bronk. Ah ! the thing is to be on 
the lookout and prevent him from defeating any such 
possible compromise. How is he going to do it, 
though ^ 


42 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Unfortunately, he feels he is little good for man- 
oeuvres of this kind. He has always been accustomed 
to going straight toward his purpose, his eyes direct 
upon the object in view, his thoughts given wholly to 
the work necessary to attain his end. Now, here he is 
called upon to exercise diplomacy; to practice eva- 
sions and ruses which are not at all in his brusque 
nature. Repressing his usual bluntness, he had not at 
once told Bronk what he thought of his very queer 
proposition. He had pretended to want time to think 
it over. What will he say when the money-lender 
presses for an answer ? What can he say ? 

Sorely perplexed, he walks on, thinking over this 
and that contingency, this and that line of action. 
Not caring where he goes, he walks now forward, now 
back, taking by preference the quiet side streets and 
avoiding the gay, crowded avenues. 

The hours go quickly by, and it is late in the even- 
ing when at last he comes to a stop, with a sense of 
being tired out. Looking up, he finds he is in Fif- 
teenth Street, a little to the east of Stuyvesant Square. 
He stands for a moment irresolute. Then, after 
glancing at his watch, he walks briskly up the street 
until he reaches a house almost facing the eastern end 
of the square. Walking up the steps, he rings the 
bell. With little delay, the door is opened, and he 
passes into the hall. 

In the subdued light of the hall lamp, there is a 
flutter of something white, a joyous exclamation, and 
a woman’s arms are thrown about his neck. 

“ My dearest, how glad I am to see you ! How 
good of you to come ! ” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


43 


CHAPTER V. 

A MOMENT later, he finds himself standing in the 
centre of a little parlor on the ground floor, into 
which, a white-draped arm twined around his black 
coat-sleeve, he has been quickly led. Leaning with 
both hands upon his shoulders, her body bent slightly 
forward, she looks up into his face. 

“ I am so glad to see you,” she repeats. 

For a moment he stands looking down at her, 
watching the glow of color in her face all scarlet and 
aflame with glad excitement ; then, with a quick 
movement he passes his arm about her waist, and 
draws her to him. He holds her thus for a brief, 
silent space ; then, with a kiss on forehead, cheek and 
lip, releases her. 

Again, without a shade of simulated coyness, she 
looks up at him. In the red of her cheek, is a white 
spot, testifying to the severity of the recent pressure. 

^‘And you — are you glad to see me?” she asks, 
panting a little as she speaks, and pressing back some 
strands of blond hair which are fluttering loosely. 

“ How can you ask ? ” • 

She laughs. 

“ Because you would never say so without cross- 
examination.” 

She is a shapely girl ; tall, straight, and well-devel- 
oped — a blonde, not of the pale, languid type, but full 
of life and color. Her hair, through which run 
streaks almost of a copper red in spots where the light 
strikes full and strong upon it, curves in thick and 
very wavy clusters over her forehead ; the nose is 


44 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


short and daintily modelled ; the lips of an aggressive 
red, further heightened by the whiteness of teeth and 
skin. The eyes — honest blue eyes, well-opened and 
of deepest blue — are frank and brave, rather pensive 
at times, it is true, but capable of lighting up into the 
most sunshiny of smiles. Dressed in the simplest 
kind of close-fitting dress of white batiste she has a 
natural elegance, sweetness and ease, which are full of 
charm. Taking her all in all, Agnes Denton, as she 
looks on this hot summer’s evening, is what ninety- 
nine men out of a hundred would unhesitatingly and 
spontaneously vote to be “an uncommonly fine-look- 
ing girl.” 

“ But, I am keeping you standing,” she continues. 
“How thoughtless of me! It is so warm, and you 
must be very tired.” 

Once more the white arm entwines itself atound the 
black coat sleeve and Henson is led to a little divan, 
near the window — a little divan of just the right 
size to comfortably accommodate two. 

“ No, no ; I am not in the least tired,” he protests. 

'‘But, you look quite pale and harassed,” she per- 
sists. 

“ Oh, that is nothing.” 

“Nothing — indeed!” 

“ Probably the heat.” 

“ But, I never before knew you, even on the hottest 
days, to be affected by the weather.” 

“No? Well, never mind me. Tell me something 
of yourself.” 

There is nothing new to tell. Mamma is well, 
although she has gone to bed to-night rather earlier 
than usual. Oh, yes ; I have something to tell. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 45 

though. Do you know, sir, I was near getting quite 
angry with you this afternoon.” 

“ Angry with me ! What can I have done ? ” 

“ Patience, and I will tell you. A little before six 
o’clock, I was looking out of the window, when I saw 
somebody go by who looked just like you. The same 
figure — the same long, quick steps, which I can never 
keep up to. For the moment I was almost sure it 
was you, on your way to dine at that restaurant near 
Broadway of which you speak so highly. Of course, I 
was just a little — little — bit interested, and was get- 
ting ready to make a nice little bow in return to that 
of Dr. Henson. What, then, was my surprise to see 
the object of my attention pass by, without even a 
glance at the house. What have you to say to that ! 
Were you so engrossed with your dinner, sir, that you 
had no room for even a thought for me?” 

“ It was not I.” 

“ You are sure ? ” 

“Very! I have not passed through this street 
to-day, and as for dinner — I have not even dined.” 

“At this hour — not — even — dined! ” 

“ Well, no ; but really I do not see any necessity 
for being disturbed over such a trifle.” 

“ Such a trifle! You poor darling, here am I talk- 
ing a lot of nonsense, and you — you are dying of 
hunger! No wonder you look pale.” 

“ One does not die from hunger quite so easily as 
that.” 

She springs to her feet. 

“ I insist upon your having your dinner at once.” 

“ But, I assure you, I am not hungry.” 

“ I insist.” 


46 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“Well, then, let us go to the restaurant.” 

“ No ; it will take too long. You are going to take 
dinner — or rather supper — with me — here.” 

“ But — ” 

“ I will not listen to any objections — I insist. Do 
it to please me. It will be so much quieter and nicer 
than at a restaurant. Wait here ; I will be back in a 
few minutes,” and as she speaks she is out of the 
room. 

Henson sits looking at the door through which she 
has passed. How strangely still and empty the room 
seems now that she has left. 

It is a little more than a year since they met and 
loved. How well he recalls that night in the spring 
of last year, when he saw her for the first time ! 
It was late, , quite late, and he was deep in some 
work, when his bell rang. He found himself called 
upon to attend her mother, who had been stricken 
with an attack of paralysis. How well he remembers 
reaching the house, and finding Agnes at the patient’s 
bedside. She was very pale, and her eyes were 
strained and unnaturally dilated with excitement and 
alarm ; yet, in her actions, how quiet and self-con- 
tained. An admirable girl this. Quiet, useful, and 
not one likely to make foolish scenes, he remembers 
thinking to himself at the time. 

He had seen her daily during the long and at times 
dangerous illness that followed, and he had never 
failed to find her at her post in the sick room, ever 
full of thoughtfulness and self-sacrifice for the patient ; 
ever intelligent, alert and active. With what anxiety 
she used to follow him from the sick chamber after 
each visit, to learn from him privately the progress of 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


47 


the case ! In her close-fitting dress of some dark 
material, bringing into relief the gold of her hair, she 
looked ^like some angel of mercy. Before long the 
road to this house, which he had passed over a hun- 
dred times before with the utmost indifference, grew 
into one of the brightest and pleasantest walks in the 
city, and seemed to him filled with a hundred objects 
of interest. Then it came about, too, that at times — 
at the most irrelevant times — when walking along the 
street, or stopping for a moment in his- work, there 
would come before his mind Agnes — Agnes as she 
was in those little conferences after each visit, with 
her fair face and hair, her red lips, and that indescrib- 
able accompaniment of something that is sweet and 
good. At last it dawned upon him. A change was 
coming over him ; he was experiencing something 
that he had never known before — for the first time it 
occurred to him that that irregularly-shaped and mus- 
cular organ known as the heart might divert itself to 
other functions besides the circulation of the blood. 

The realization of this came to him really as a sharp 
and sudden surprise, and also as a sharp and sudden 
disappointment. What ! Was he actually such a 
simpleton as this— as to further burden himself with a 
heart affair, when he was already so heavily handi- 
capped. It was really too preposterous. Well ; there 
was no harm done as yet ! Common sense pointed 
clearly enough- the path, he should follow, and he 
thought he might safely trust to his force of will to 
carry him along that path. No woman must hamper 
him on the road to success. 

Before long, however, he found it necessary to take 
in several reefs in this sail of self-confidence. Away 


48 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


from Agnes, he was thoroughly master of himself ; 
with her — ah ! there was no denying it, it was very 
different. He was both disappointed and angry with 
himself. For a man to whom reason and logic had up 
to this time been the rule of life, these evidences of 
weakness and vacillation were exasperating, and he 
only arrived at self-forgiveness by repeating to himself 
that, after all, it made no practical difference ; that, in 
any event, nothing could turn him from the path he 
had. resolved to follow. Once more, no weaknesses of 
this kind must handicap him in the battle for success ! 

Had he been rich, or even possessed of a moderate 
'income, it is possible, he confessed to himself — that is, 
when he was actually with her — that he might have 
let himself be carried away ; that he might have elected 
to give way to ideas which were now not to be enter- 
tained. But, in -his position, it would simply be mad- 
ness to think of taking to himself a wife. What had 
he to offer, anyway — nothing but struggles and pov- 
erty. Bah ! it was not to be thought of. 

Since he had come to know her, he had naturally 
learned something of her circumstances and condition. 
The mother was the widow of a once well-to-do bottle 
manufacturer. They had been well off, quite rich, in 
fact, at one time ; but the old man had been caught in 
the panic of the Black Friday days, and the big 
bottle house had gone with a smash, suggestive of 
a meteor crashing through one of its full laden 
crates. In the midst of their troubles the old manu- 
facturer had drooped and died, leaving to the 
widow little of the ample competence which had 
once been theirs. The house they lived in Mrs. Den- 
ton owned, although it was encumbered with quite a 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


49 


heavy mortgage, and she and the daughter lived by 
letting a portion of this house. The latter also had 
some music pupils, and sang on Sundays in the choir 
of an ultra-fashionable church uptown, to which in 
by-gone days her father had been a liberal contributor. 
There was a son, too ; a rather weak and shiftless 
young fellow, it seemed, who after a brief mercantile 
experience in New York had gone out West to try 
and better his fortunes. From this Western trip he 
had lately returned, not having accomplished any 
results to speak of in this new field of action. 

Such were the circumstances of the Denton family. 
There was certainly nothing to be gained either for 

them, or him, in such a match as he could offer. 

These reflections had the effect of reassuring him, 

and he gave himself over to less constraint in her 
society. Why should he not enjoy the pleasure 
of looking at this sweet girl and hearing • her 
voice ? Surely his life had not been so petted and 
happy that he was called upon to deny himself a pass- 
ing gratification such as this. Besides,, what harm ! 
Was he not sure of himself, and his power of self- 
regulation and self-control ! 

During the days of the patient’s convalescence, 

then, he had been at no pains to avoid her, but 
had continued to see her, with feelings steadily 
gaining in intensity. But, one day when he 
called he found Agnes all alarmed, agitated, upset. 
The patient had had a relapse ; she seemed quite 
low. Carefully Henson made his examination, and 
found it was only one of those slight backward turns 
peculiar to convalescence. Gently, yet confidently, 
he so informed Agnes when she followed him from 


50 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


the sick-room as was her wont. Her nerves, however, 
unstrung by the long suspense and watching inci- 
dental to her duties as nurse, suddenly gave way, and 
with one last, pitiful attempt at self-control, she burst 
into tears. 

Never in the course of his whole life had Henson 
been so shaken and shocked. Bending over her, he 
sought to soothe and control her. But, overwrought 
Nature demanded full sway, and the torrent of grief 
was not to be easily stemmed. 

Between her sobs, her voice heavy with her sorrow, 
she asked in half apology to be forgiven. She had 
not meant to give this trouble ; she could not help it 
— and he had always said she had been very good so 
far. But, poor mamma ! It went to her heart to see 
her lying there so weak and white and helpless. She 
had been so good to her — oh ! so good. She was all 
she had, and — and — she felt just now so very, very 
lonesome. 

For a moment Henson had stood looking down, the 
irregularly-shaped, muscular organ, whose apex lies 
across the median line and which fulfils the functions 
of a pump to the circulatory system, performing just 
then some very, very, strange gyrations. Then bend- 
ing low over her, from his lips came a few husky, ill- 
connected words. She looked up, and their eyes met. 

A moment later he held her in his arms. 

The next day he had called upon her, and had 
spoken very seriously to her, honestly describing his 
position. Her answer had been such as to convince 
him that her love was one in which bonds and chattels 
and bank accounts had little place. Bestowing upon 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


51 


him a sweet affection and sympathy, and filled with 
deepest admiration for him and confidence in his talents, 
his genius, she had been content to love and wait, 
leaving the question of marriage a matter of the 
rather indefinite future. 


CHAPTER VL 

“Come. All is ready,” says Agnes, bustling into 
the room. 

Henson starts. In this drift back into the past he 
has almost forgotten the preparation which has been 
going on of this little supper. 

“ Ready ! ” he exclaims, confusedly. “ Oh — yes. 

Really, you are very good.” 

“Good! ” she replies, deprecatingly, “just as if it 
was not a pleasure to do anything in which you are 
concerned. But, don’t let us waste time talking and 
you — starved.” 

As she speaks, she trips gayly toward the hall lead- 
ing to the little dining-room. There, however, she 
suddenly stops and turns toward Henson. 

“ Your arm, if you please. Doctor,” she says, with 
mock stateliness. “Will you kindly take me in to 
supper? ” 

Henson joins in her mood, and offering his arm con- 
ducts her with due solemnity to the supper table. 
There, she suddenly leaves his side and, running over 
to the sideboard, hunts up a piece of cardboard and a 
pencil. 

“What are you going to do? ” he asks, laughing, as 


52 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

she proceeds to cut the cardboard into a short, square 
strip. 

“To write our menu” she declares, with an answer- 
ing laugh. “ I want everything in first-class style — ■ 
just like at the restaurant.” 

She scribbles away for a moment and then comes 
running over to Henson, the cardboard in her hand. 

“ There ! ” she exclaims, triumphantly. 

Henson takes the improvised menu and reads : 

Sardmes h V huile. 

Mouton^ froid, it V Improviste, 

Fromage Anglais. 

Dessert. — Fruits. 

Cafi noir. 

“ There,” she continues, as Henson finishes the 
perusal of the above ; “ now let us sit down to table.” 

Then, they having taken their seats and spread 
their napkins, she continues her pleasantry : — 

“ Do you think of going to Saratoga this season. 
Doctor?” she asks, bending toward him in politest 
inquiry. 

Henson smiles a little sadly. Instantly she per- 
ceives the slight constraint. 

“Something, I know, is worrying you to-night,” she 
says, with gentle concern. “ Won’t you tell me what 
it is?” 

“ Nothing — nothing, I assure you,” he protests. 

“It seems to me there is something,’" she continues, 
doubtfully. “ But, dearest, come — let us try and put 
all trouble aside. Let us for the moment think only 
of the present, and be happy in the fact that we are 
together.” 

She looks at him very tenderly, and stretches out 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 53 

her hand to him under the table. He takes it and 
presses it. 

“You are right. Let us be happy together,” he 
assents. 

The little supper progresses gayly. Agnes is 
brightness itself. She talks really entertainingly, and 
even says some things that are quite epigrammatic 
and clever. She does not allow the conversation to 
flag, and Henson cannot help laughing from time to 
time at her amusing sallies. 

Still, little by little, his face darkens and the expres- 
sion of uneasiness and preoccupation, which she had 
noticed when he first called, becomes more and more 
marked. She makes another attempt to rally his 
spirits. 

“ If you are not altogether too displeased with my 
little supper,” she says, “won’t you come and dine 
with mamma and me some day next week?” 

“Next week?” he repeats, vacantly. 

“ Yes.” 

He sighs : 

“Next week! Who knows what may happen next 
week — to-morrow — any moment I ” 

A look of alarm comes into Agnes’ face. 

“You frighten me!” she exclaims, with agitation. 
“ Oh, Philip, do not keep me in suspense. Do let me 
know what has gone wrong.” 

“You are right,” says Henson, slowly. “ It is, per- 
haps, best to tell you everything— to let you know 
all.” 

“ Whatever troubles come to you,” she replies, 
with feeling, “are also mine. You know I want to 
share them with you, dearest. You can, at least. 


54 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

always count upon your Agnes to sympathize and 
understand.” 

Without further delay, he repeats to her the story 
he has already told to Herrick and to Bronk, conceal- 
ing nothing of the desperate strait in which he finds 
himself, and only withholding the humiliating expe- 
riences he has encountered in his efforts to secure 
aid. 

She listens, crushed and dumbfounded. At last he 
comes to a stop, his story told. 

“ It seems cruel, indeed,” she says, the tears in her 
eyes, “ that after all your perseverance and hard work 
it has come to this.” 

“ Especially when the results of this perseverance 
and work seem so near at hand, and the road just 
ahead looks so open and promising,” he replies, bit- 
terly. 

“ What is to be done now?” 

Done ! If what is to be feared happens, there 
remains little to be done.” • 

Could you not rent a floor, furnished, near where 
you now are ? ” 

“ Impossible to find one that would be at all suit- 
able, and even if I could, the rent of such a floor, suit- 
ably furnished, would eat me up. Besides, the news 
of what had happened to me would not be long 
spreading, and neither patients, nor insurance com- 
panies, want anything to do with a doctor who has 
been sold out. It isn’t respectable, you know.” 

“And your experiments? ” 

“ The least disturbance of them at the present stage 
means absolute destruction. They would have to be 
gone all oyer again from the beginning.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 55 

'‘It is really terrible," exclaims Agnes, with emo- 
tion. “ Is there nothing that can be done?" 

“ Nothing that I see, except to take a position as 
assistant to some doctor with a big practice." 

“ Is that all ? " 

“ There is only one other alternative that I can 
think of. In a pret’ty town in Pennsylvania, I know 
of an old doctor who has grown too aged to longer 
attend to his practice. This practice I can secure on 
such easy terms as to come even within my reach." 

“ Does that not seem better? " 

Henson utters a cry — a cry in which pain, despair, 
and something more, which Agnes cannot clearly 
define, are blended. For a moment he is silent, as if 
struggling to gain mastery over himself. 

“ To me," he says, with intensest bitterness, “ it 
seems like death. It means to me the burying of 
myself alive ; the abandoning of work to which I have 
given years of labor, the destruction of all my ideas of 
making a place and a name in the city ; and finally — 
our separation." 

“ Our separation ! Why our separation ? " 

“ What else would you have ? " 

“ What else would I have ? I would go with you. 
Dear Philip, you will, I know, concede that up to this 
time I have never sought to hasten our marriage ; 
that I have never by word or deed sought to quicken 
the coming of that day. I recognized that in your 
position a wife would be a burden ; especially a wife 
such as I^ who can only bring to her husband— her 
love. But, now, the conditions have changed. You 
speak of going to a strange place, where there are no 
friends, no acquaintances; probably few who have 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


56 

anything in common with you in education, ideas, 
tastes. What will become of you, left alone to your 
disappointment and regrets ! If you will only let me, 
my own, I will go with you ; and with some one who 
loves you dearly at one’s side, one cannot be alto- 
gether lonely and wretched. When you return tired, 
you will find me waiting there to welcome you back ; 
when you remain at home, you will find me trying to 
take a part in your ideas, your work, and seeking 
to understand and share them. I have no dread of 
poverty, as you know, nor do I fear isolation and soli- 
tude. Wherever you are, I shall be happy. All I 
ask, is the privilege of taking mamma with me. You 
have seen enough of her to know that she is neither 
intrusive nor hard to get along with. Of course, to take 
mamma and me will be to take extra burdens with 
you, but they will, I think, be lighter ones than you 
may, perhaps, imagine. A woman, if she only wills, 
knows how to bring order and economy into a house- 
hold, and such a woman I will be, I promise you. In 
this household, I have not altogether been a drone 
and, even out there, I may still find means of earning 
money while you are building up your practice. The 
living, there, cannot be very dear. Oh, take me with 
you, dearest — I beg you, let me go.” 

His hands are resting upon the table and she puts 
both hers into his, as she looks up into his face as if 
to read the effect of her words. What will his answer 
be ? It seems to her as if, in some strange way, the 
fate of both their lives hangs upon his reply. A great 
emotion is upon her, and is marked in the trembling 
of her lips. Tightening his clasp on her hands, he 
looks into her face. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 57 

** How you do love me !” he exclaims, after a long 
pause. 

“ Give me a chance to prove it in some way besides 
words — ” 

It would be rank cowardice to darken your life 
with my poverty and my misfortune.” 

“ My life can never be dark when it is brightened 
by the presence of the man I love.” 

He remains silent for a moment, his face very 
sad. 

“Out there,” he asks, in a low voice'^ “do you 
think you could continue to love me out there?” 

The question, half-whispered, seems prompted more 
by his own thoughts than addressed to her. 

“ Oh, Philip ! ” she cries, with both reproach and 
pain. “ How can you ask this. Have I deserved 
this doubt ?” 

He shakes his head: 

“ The man whom you love,” he answers, slowly, 
“ you have so far seen only in his better light. What- 
ever my difficulties or my troubles were, I have 
always so far been able to smile in answer to your 
smile, and be gay when you were gay, because, no 
matter how hard things were, I was sustained by 
hope and confidence in the future. I do not care, and 
never have cared, for the ordinary pleasures and grati- 
fications which attract the great majority of men. 
My one dream, aim, ambition has been success. Suc- 
cess to me is King — God — all ! Out . there, in this 
petty Pennsylvanian village, dreams, hope, future 
would all alike be gone — nothing would be left except 
a sense of helpless rage over a broken career ; feelings 
of disappointment, discontent, despair ! What kind of 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


58 

a man would this make of me ? Do you think you 
could keep on loving such an one ?” 

“ A thousand times more than ever. His unhappi- 
ness would make my duty doubly great,” she answers, 
with conviction. 

“Could you find the strength! In the long run, 
the burden would prove too great and weariness 
would come.” 

“I will not believe it; nor do I believe you would 
become altogether the man you paint. Opportunity 
and hope would spring up in some new form. 
Besides, could you not continue your experiments out 
there? ” 

“Impossible! for many reasons which would take 
too long to explain. I will give you one, which alone 
is sufficient. Without having ever bored you to death 
with medicine, you have heard enough from me to 
know that hitherto pathology, as officially instructed, 
set forth that the human system secreted within itself 
the germs of a large number of infectious diseases, 
which developed themselves spontaneously under 
certain conditions. Thus, for instance, tuberculosis 
may develop from excessive fatigue, privations, or 
other forms of physical distress. Well ; quite recently 
it has been conceded by certain sections of the medi- 
cal fraternity that there exists a parasitical origin in 
these diseases and, both in this country and in Europe, 
there is an army of inquisitors investigating these 
parasites. I am one of this army, and it is to the 
parasites of tuberculosis and of cancer that I have 
specially attached myself. As for tuberculosis, I have 
succeeded in discovering its parasite, but have not yet 
been able to thoroughly free it from its attendant 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


59 


impurities by the processes of culture. In cancer, 
also, I have got so far as to find its micro-organism. 
Nor is that all. Some years ago there lived in Lon- 
don an English specialist — a Dr. Hastings — who 
possessed a perfect cure for cancer in its earlier stages. 
He died suddenly, leaving the secret of this cure 
unknown even to his son, who was also a practising 
physician. All that is known is that the basis of the 
cure consisted in certain extractions from sea-shells, 
and for years I have been following up experiments in 
this direction, which have recently been yielding most 
astonishing results. I have not yet fully discovered 
the Hastings cure, but I am so near its discovery that 
— as the children say — I burn. In a few weeks, per- 
haps even in a few days, I may reach the final result, 
and fortune and renown are before me. But, to come 
back to the point ! You ask me why my experiments 
cannot be continued out there ? The culture of these 
parasites is only to be carried on in certain carefully 
maintained temperatures, which can be almost in- 
stantly increased or lowered to any given degree by 
means of hot water pipes heated by gas, whose flame 
is automatically regulated by the greater or less heat 
of the water. How is this delicate operation to be 
pursued in some little country place where they pro- 
bably have not even gas ? Besides, there are a num- 
ber of other requirements, which are only obtainable 
in a large city. No, no ; if I leave New York, my 
experiments are lost and of my labor and research of 
these past years there remains nothing — nothing but 
the remembrance of my disappointment and defeat.” 

She hears him to the end and, then, without a 
moment’s hesitation, makes her answer. 


6o ' 


PHILIP HENSON, M, D. 


“You must Stay,’’ she says, firmly ; “you must not 
go. Forgive me for what I said just now. In my 
eagerness to be of use to you, to be with you, I 
spoke unwisely. It was selfish ; it was wrong. At all 
costs, I now see you must remain. Can we not 
find some way out of these difficulties ? Have you 
surely tried everything? ” 

By way of answer, he describes to her the efforts he 
has made to bring Cauman to some satisfactory terms ; 
his appeals to Herrick and to other friends and, finally, 
his visit to Bronk. 

At the mention of the name Bronk, she winces per- 
ceptibly : 

“ Bronk ! ” she cries, with agitation. “ Bronk ! Oh, 
how did you come to go to him ? ” 

“ Well, I had heard him spoken of — ” 

“ He is a bad man, a very bad man.” 

“You know of him! How do you come to know 
of him ? ” he asks, astonished. 

“ My brother Will,” she answers, “was at one time 
employed in the same building and became in that 
way acquainted with Bronk, who offered him a posi- 
tion as clerk. He took it, but was very glad to throw 
it up before long.” 

“Why?” asks Henson, curiously. 

“ Oh, his ways of doing business were simply shame- 
ful ; so heartless, so corrupt, that no self-respecting 
man could remain there. Besides he was. in the habit 
of getting into such violent fits of rage that it was 
positively unsafe to be with him. Will said that 
at times he was almost in danger of personal vio- 
lence.” 

Henson smiles : 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


6l 


“ I can quite believe it,” he replies. “ I saw some- 
thing of the kind while there to-day.” 

“ From what Will tells me,” continues Agnes, “ he 
is capable of any villainy ; yes, of any crime, for the 
sake of making a few hundred dollars. His greed for 
money is so great that he will stop at nothing — no 
matter how heartless, cruel, or wicked. And he does 
all this simply from sheer avarice ; to amass more 
money, although he has not a relative in the world to 
leave it all to. Oh, Will has told me some shocking 
things about him. Why did you go to him? ” 

“I went to him,” answers Henson, deliberately, 
“ with my eyes open. I had heard him spoken of as 
the most grasping and greedy money-lender in all 
New York. I had also heard him spoken of as a 
money-lender who ran big risks for big returns. 
An ordinary money-lender would have had nothing to 
do with such a case as mine, and such security as I 
have to offer. But I am willing to pay heavily, very 
heavily even, and Bronk seemed to me the best and 
only man.” 

“ And what answer did he give you ? ” 

“ He told me that he did not think he could find 
anybody willing to make such a loan as I wanted ; 
but still he would try, and I am to see him again 
to-morrow. He also promised to take hold of my 
case against Cauman, and to keep him off for a time.” 
“You entrusted your case to him ! ” 

“ Why not ? If it’s a good maxim to set a thief to 
catch a thief, it’s also a good idea to match one rascal 
against another rascal. He will probably know better 
than any one else how to hold Cauman at bay, and 
it’s always so much time gained for me.” 


62 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ But what will he ask for this service ? ” 

“What do I care what he asks? Unless he finds 
me the money I require, I shall have nothing to give.” 

“ Oh, dearest,” she says, hesitatingly, “ I beg you to 
have nothing to do with this man.” 

“What, then,” he rejoins, with some impatience» 
“ do you wish me to do ? Am I to surrender every- 
thing to Cauman — to let everything go?” 

“ No, darling, no,” she answers, with agitation, “but 
I do so want to urge you to be on your guard against 
this wretch. If you had only heard all I have heard 
about this monster’s cruelty and crimes toward poor 
victims who have fallen into his clutches, you would 
dread and detest him, too. I say he is not fit to live. 
He has deserved death a hundred times.” 

“Very likely; and I promise you that I will be 
very careful in my dealings with him. Still, I think I 
ought to make such use as I can of him in my fight 
against Cauman. As for falling into his clutches, 
there is not much danger of that, as I think we 
may feel pretty certain that when I go to him 
for my answer he will decline to make the loan I 
ask.” 

“You go to him to-morrow for this answer?” 

“ Yes.” 

“One promise, dearest, I want you to make me.” 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ I shall insist upon your granting it.” 

“ It is granted in advance.” 

“ That you will come to me to-morrow night and 
let me know his answer.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


63 


CHAPTER VIL 

Half-PAST five o’clock on the following afternoon 
finds Henson climbing up the stairs leading to Bronk’s 
office. They are wet and sloppy, as upon the occa- 
sion of his previous visit, and upon Bronk’s landing he 
encounters the same old woman with her scrubbing 
brush and pail. 

Walking to the end of the passage, he enters 
Bronk’s office. The clerk has already gone and, as 
before, the old money lender comes shuffling out of 
the inner room to meet him. 

“ How do you do, my dear Doctor?” 

“How do you do, Mr. Bronk?” 

Bronk turns and leads the way into the inner office. 
Henson follows and takes his seat beside the big, flat 
topped writing table. 

For a moment neither speaks; each seems to be 
waiting for the other to open the interview. 

“ Well, sir,” says Henson, at last, “ I have come for 
my reply with regard to the loan we talked of yester- 
day.” 

“Ah! Yes — yes,” assents Bronk, cheerfully. 

“What is the answer ?” continues Henson, a little 
impatiently. “ Have you tried to get the money for 
me?” 

“ In every direction.” 

“ Well?” 

Bronk shrugs his shoulders suggestively, and con- 
torts his mouth into a deprecatory grimace. 

“Just as I told you, my dear sir,’’ he answers, shak- 
ing his head. “ It is so difficult to negotiate loans of 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


64 

this kind. With everybody I saw, it was the same 
thing — security unsatisfactory — risk too great — didn’t 
want to touch it.” 

“ Not even at a big rate of interest ? ” 

“ Not even at a big rate of interest.” 

“And how about the Cauman matter?” continues 
Henson. 

“ In that direction, everything is all right for the 
present. My lawyer and I have taken action which 
will have the effect of delaying matters for some little 
time.” 

“ For how long a time ? ” 

“That, my dear sir, I cannot say exactly. How 
long would you have us Fold things off, anyway — for 
good and ever?” asks the old man, with a wicked 
chuckle. 

“ If you could manage a delay until October.” 

“Just as I thought,” interrupts Bronk, sarcastically; 
“ for good and ever. What you ask amounts practi- 
cally to the same thing. Impossible; quite impossi- 
ble! Besides, what guarantee do you give of being 
able to liquidate your indebtedness in October ? If 
you have any such guarantee — backed, of course, by 
substantial collateral — let us have it at once, my dear 
sir, let us have it at once.” 

“As I have already told you,” answers Henson, a 
little wearily, “ I have unfortunately no such guar- 
antee to offer. If, however, I can succeed in keeping 
Cauman off until October, I assure you most posi- 
tively that I shall then be able to pay this debt and 
also, of course, such fees as you may require for your 
services. There are my bills due from patients, which 
I shall then have collected ; there is my appointment 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


65 


with the insurance company, of which I am certain, if I 
can only succeed in maintaining my present status — ” 

“ Quite insufficient security, my dear sir,” interrupts 
Bronk; “quite insufficient, I assure you. I should 
not be dealing honestly with you if I failed to tell you 
frankly that the money cannot possibly be raised on 
any such inducements. Personally, I should be will- 
ing to stretch a point ; but, as I have already said to 
you, I am only an agent acting for others, and my 
clients will not entertain your proposition. As for the 
Cauman matter, the best I can promise you is to hold 
Cauman off for a few days. A couple of weeks, 
perhaps, at most.” 

“Well; secure this delay of a couple of weeks, at 
any rate.” 

“ And after that — what then ? ” 

“ Between this and then we shall see,” answers 
Henson, rising to go. 

“ One moment, my dear sir,” exclaims Bronk ; “ sit 
down again, if you please ; I have something else to 
speak to you about. After I had visited various 
clients of mine this morning, and found that it was 
utterly impossible to secure you your loan, it occurred 
to me to make a little call upon my young friend, the 
one I spoke to you about — 

“Oh, yes; I remember,” answers Henson, with a 
slight sneer ; the young lady who was educated in a 
fashionable seminary.” 

“ Just so,” continues Bronk; ''and I asked her what 
she thought of a young doctor, full of talent, fine-look- 
ing man, with a brilliant future before him. She 
seemed greatly pleased ; I may even say, flattered. 
All of a sudden, though, an idea seemed to trouble 


66 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


her, and she turned to me and put the question, 
‘ What about the little one ? ’ Without an instant’s 
hesitation, I assured her that you were too high- 
minded, too whole-souled, too generous a man not to 
regard with an indulgent eye such a trifling matter as 
this. Was I not right, my dear sir ? ” 

He pauses for an answer, which does not come. 

“Yes, I knew I was right!” continues Bronk, not 
in the least disturbed by Henson’s silence. “ At that 
very moment, by the way, the little one was there 
with us, and I had a chance to take a good look at him. 
Fragile, my dear sir, fragile and delicate in the 
extreme, is this dear little baby ! and I doubt very 
much that, with your best professional skill, you can 
succeed in saving it. Furthermore, let me say to you 
that if, as is to be feared, you should fail to do so, it 
would not in the least reflect upon your ability as a 
practitioner. You give, of course, your skill; but you 
cannot give life. Is it not so?” 

“ Speaking of medical treatment,” exclaims Henson, 
who is seeking to avoid giving a direct answer ; “ how 
did the prescription I gave you act ? ” 

“ Like a charm, my dear sir. The pains have all 
gone on the right side, and I have only a few slight 
twinges on the left. Shall I continue taking the 
medicine?” 

“Yes, for the present, but it will be necessary to 
change it before long. I shall come in to see you 
again soon, and I will then give you another prescrip- 
tion.” 

“Very well, very well ! I shall be glad to see you, 
and,” with a meaning leer, “ I hope you will be ready 
with your answer as to that affair.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


67 

Henson mutters a reply, which may mean anything, 
and walks to the door. He turns the knob and tries 
to get out. The door, however, will not yield to his 
effort and he perceives that it is locked. Bronk 
shuffles out to his assistance. 

“ Allow me, my dear sir,” he exclaims ; “ the spring 
lock up above here has slipped and locked the door. 
It is loose and the jar of closing the door makes it do 
that sometimes.” And as he speaks he turns the 
catch and releases his visitor. 

Making his exit from the money-lender’s office, 
Henson goes to a neighboring restaurant and, with 
most unprofessional disregard of the well-being of his 
digestive tract, hurries through his dinner, after which 
he proceeds to pay his promised visit to Agnes. 

“ Well ? ” she asks, tremulously, as soon as they are 
together in the little parlor. 

“ It was just as I anticipated,” he answers. “ He 
will not make the loan.” 

She rests her head upon his shoulder, in a caress 
full of tender sympathy. 

‘‘ And what about Cauman ? ” 

There, he has promised to gain for me a little 
time.” 

They sit down side by side on the little divan beside 
the window, where they have in the past spent so 
many pleasant hours in each other’s company. 

“ Your brother was right,” he remarks, presently, as if 
in answer to the trend of his own thoughts ; “ that man 
Bronk is certainly the most arrant scoundrel living.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaims Agnes, “you, too, have found that 
out. “ Did he propose anything suspicious? ” 

“ Well, he proposed that I should — marry.” 


68 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

“ The wretch ! ” cries Agnes, astonished and indig- 
nant. 

“ More than that,” continues Henson, “ I am con- 
vinced that he refuses to advance me this money so as 
to hold me the more at his mercy, and influence me 
the more, as he thinks, in the direction of this match 
which he is trying to patch up. That is just his calcu- 
lation, the old villain. To my own knowledge, he has 
often lent money on salaries and other forms of secur- 
ity no stronger than that which I have to offer. All 
he asked in such cases was a big rate of interest — an 
extra big rate of interest.” 

“ He may always safely be counted on never to 
miss an opportunity to practice extortion. Is there 
no law to protect people from such a man as 
this? ” 

“ Certainly ; there is a law against usury — a law 
prohibiting the charging of more than a certain legal 
rate of interest. Bronk, though, knows well how to 
get around this law. He takes very good care not to 
charge more than the legal rate, but, as he says, he is 
only a broker, or agent, representing others who are 
the actual lenders. For his services as alleged agent 
between the lender and the borrower he charges a fee, 
and this fee, which is in reality interest under 
another name, is so regulated as to bring up the 
interest to an exorbitant percentage. That’s how he 
manages it.” 

“ It seems a pity that the law should be so devised 
that dishonest people can get around it.” 

“ The law for the most part, my dear, seems to be 
just so devised that the dishonest ones shall get 
around it.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


69 

“ But, tell me of this marriage which he spoke 
to you about,” continues Agnes, looking somewhat 
abashed. 

“Oh, yes. Well, he wants me to marry a young 
woman who, it appears, is slightly addicted to 
inebriety, and who also has had a somewhat doubtful 
adventure.” 

“ What ! He dared to talk to you like that ? ” 

“Well, his proposition was not made with quite the 
same bluntness as I have put it, but it amounted to 
the same thing. He also accompanied it with certain 
little suggestions, which were intended to have their 
weight. If I cannot cure the lady of her drink- 
ing habits, I am to abandon her to them and they 
will, doubtless, carry her off in due season, the marriage 
settlements to be so arranged by the worthy Mr. 
Bronk that I am not to be a pecuniary loser by her 
untimely end.” 

“ Oh, what villainy ! ” 

“As for the little boy, a charming little fellow, the 
offspring of this equally charming lady, he is so 
delicate, so very fragile, that he cannot reasonably be 
expected to go on living. So fragile is he, in fact, 
that should he die under my treatment it would cer- 
tainly not in the least injure my reputation as a 
doctor.” 

“ What a monster ! ” 

“ Monster, indeed ! ” exclaims Henson, his face sud- 
denly darkening. “ Dp you know that while he was 
talking in that way, and speculating on the death of 
others, it occurred to me that no great harm would be 
done if an end were put to his life.” 

“You were quite right.” 


70 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ Do you know,” continues Henson, with a dry 
laugh, “that, at a certain moment, nothing could have 
come easier for me to do. He is suffering from neu- 
ralgia in the face, and I bent over him to examine his 
mouth. His throat was turned full up to me. All I 
had to do was to give it a pinch — a miserable old 
diabetic such as he, who certainly has not six months 
to live, could not have withstood more than a couple 
of moments’ pressure. In a few seconds there would 
have been an end to one of the biggest rascals in New 
York to-day ! ” 

“Unfortunately,” answers Agnes, smiling, “one 
cannot regulate matters at will in this way. Methods 
of that kind are only to be luxuriated in by people 
who are not troubled with a conscience.” 

“ Conscience, eh ? I assure you it was not any fear 
of conscience that deterred me.” 

“ Well, then, remorse, if you prefer the term.” 

“ Still less. Why, my dear, it is a great fallacy to 
suppose that intelligent people ever have remorse, pro- 
vided only they reason out their actions beforehand, 
instead of after. The intelligent man, who contem- 
plates undertaking a given act, carefully examines the 
consequences, and weighs the for and the against. If, 
after exercising his judgment in this way, he makes up 
his mind to perform that act, remorse never ensues. 
Circumstances may subsequently arise which may 
bring about regret ; but remorse — never ! ” 

“There is no doubt a good deal of truth in what 
you say and, yet, I cannot quite agree with you. I 
cannot exactly say that I have ever committed any 
crimes, but in the course of my life I have certainly 
been guilty of faults, some of which were perpetrated 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


71 


deliberately, and after due consideration, as you have 
just described. According to your theory, I ought to 
have been free from any subsequent reproaches, and 
beyond the reach of any twinges of conscience. I 
cannot say, however, that I found it so, for next 
morning I was always sure to wake up troubled, 
unhappy and full of remorse, and also quite powerless 
to stifle that mysterious inner voice which accused and 
reproached me.’' . 

“And in whose name, pray, did this mysterious and 
still more indefinite voice speak ? ” 

“ In the name of conscience, evidently.” 

“ The ‘ evidently ’ is too much, and you would find 
it pretty hard to prove your proposition, inasmuch as 
there is, I assure you, nothing more uncertain and 
intangible than this same famous conscience, which is 
a thing dependent entirely upon individual views, 
personal surroundings, and geographical location.” 

“ I do not think I quite follow you.” 

“ I will try to illustrate. If you could serve any 
purpose you have near at heart, would you hesitate to 
go to India and cause the death of a white elephant ? ” 

“ I think not.” 

“And yet there are some few millions of people in 
India who would regard this as a heinous wrong-doing, 
and did they perpetrate it would experience what you 
would doubtless describe as powerful reproaches of 
conscience. There, you see, is an instance of consci- 
ence operating under the influence of personal sur- 
roundings and geographical location.” 

“ It is difficult to argue matters based upon the 
queer superstitions of half-civilized people such as 
these.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


;2 

Very well, we will come nearer home. Suppose at 
this moment you could exert, let us say a powerful 
mesmeric control over Bronk,. and while under this 
influence which you had asserted over him, you could 
compel him to pay over to me this sum of money 
which I so urgently need. Would you refrain from 
exerting this influence and compelling him to pay 
over this money? ” 

“ That I very certainly should not.” 

‘‘Would you not fear the stabs of conscience — 
remorse ? ” 

“ Not in the least, I assure you.” 

“There you are, then. You see each one has a 
standard of his own for determining what is right and 
what is wrong ; for you will admit that, according to 
the commonly laid down, and almost universally 
accepted rules, alike of religion and law, your action 
would be wrongful. You must concede, therefore, 
that conscience is a poor scale in which to weigh the 
merit of an action, since each one operates the bal- 
ance with different weights fashioned after his own 
views.” 

“All that may be very true,” rejoins Agnes, with a 
smile, “ and yet you surely will not argue that it would 
have been right to put an end to Bronk.” 

“I do not say no,” he replies, with an answering 
laugh. “ Did not you yourself condemn him to 
death?” 

“ By the hand of Providence, or of human justice, 
yes; but not by your hand, any more than by that of 
Will, or mine, although we all three know that the 
world would be better without him, and that he 
deserves no mercy.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


73 


“Well, you see I anticipated your objections,” 
answers Henson, still smiling, “since I failed to strangle 
the wretch.” 

“ Fortunately.^* 

“ Was it ‘ fortunately’ ? ” he retorts, rather grimly. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

After saying good night to Agnes, Hensoagoes to 
his rooms. There, he at once sits down at his table, 
and plunges into work, as if to make up for the time 
he has given over to business and to sentiment. Even 
though the result of his labors may be lost, even 
though to-morrow, or the day after, his experiments 
may be broken in upon, and as a consequence de- 
stroyed, yet he will not stop while there is still a 
chance. He works just as if success were the certain 
reward of his efforts ; just as if there were no danger 
of interruption or failure — his whole mind given to his 
toil. 

This power of concentration is alike his strength 
and his pride. When not at work, he may think of 
Agnes, or suffer from discouragement, doubt, anxiety, 
fear ; at his work, there is for him no Agnes, no dis- 
couragement, no doubt, no outside thoughts or cares 
whatsoever. There is only his work, and to that he 
gives himself up entire. 

On this particular night everything goes on much 
about as usual for an hour or more. Neither Cauman 
nor Bronk, nor the difficulties surrounding him 
liave any place in his mind. Presently, however, 


74 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


having occasion to recall the incidents in connection 
with some experiment made a long time ago, he leans 
back in his chair to think. Before long he becomes 
conscious of the fact that his memory is not serving 
him as well as ordinarily. It hesitates, it falters, it 
gets incidents mixed up, and evinces a general ten- 
dency to distraction which astonishes him. He exerts 
his force of will, and brings his thoughts sharply back 
to the subject before him, only to find them stealing 
away again a second, a third, a fourth time. 

Certainly he is not in his normal condition ; there is 
certainly something the matter with him. 

What is it ? 

Every now and then a name and an expression 
recur to him and keep running through his head. 

The name is that of Bronk, the expression, 
Nothing could be simpler ! ” 

Why does this hypothesis of strangling Bronk, 
which he had only spoken of in the wildest way, and 
without the least shade of seriousness at the time, 
keep recurring to his mind with such peculiar obsti- 
nacy? 

It is really very curious. 

Up to that hour the idea of strangling a man, no 
matter how big a scoundrel that man might be, has 
never even presented itself to him ; and now, while 
talking on this subject in an aimless way, he has sud- 
denly discovered reasons which seem to render such 
an action perfectly excusable and even blameless. 

Bronk, the soulless, heartless old money-lender, who 
does harm every day he lives ! Did not Agnes her- 
self say he was not fit to live— that he ought to 
die? 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


75 


True, she added that the hand of Providence, or of 
human justice ought alone to intervene in the matter. 
But, was not this merely the scruple of a gentle, timid 
nature, obedient to teachings and sentiments whose 
influences did not .reach to, or affect him? 

Did he have any scruple, this infamous old wretch, 
who coldly, without a qualm, simply for the sake of a 
paltry commission or fee, counselled the killing of a 
woman through drink, and of a little child by any other 
means that came handy. 

He, this old man, proposed a game ; why should 
not two play at it ; and to the stronger and more 
cunning belong the spoils? 

Having arrived this far, he stops abruptly, asking 
himself if he is not mad to follow out such a line of 
thought. To chase away these ideas, he resumes his 
work. He goes on with it for a time — for fully half 
an hour — without a break. 

Then, once more, he finds his thoughts eluding the 
subject before him. He sinks back in his chair and 
begins again thinking of Bronk. 

It is certainly very true that if he had realized this 
idea of strangling Bronk all these difficulties encircling 
him, and which threatened to crush him, if not to-mor- 
row, at least in the course of a few days, would be 
instantly swept away. 

No more debts, no more humiliations; no more 
threats of seizure ; no more Cauman. What a deliver- 
ance ! 

On the other hand, a straight road before him ; the 
appointment from the insurance company made cer- 
tain, the successful carrying on of his experiments 
assured. 


76 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

What a world of thought and toil he has given to 
these experiments, and are they now to go for 
nothing? If, instead of their being pulled to pieces 
and pitched into the street as so much old rubbish, 
he could continue these experiments, what grand 
results would be obtained ! For him, renown and a 
place of honor before the world ; for humanity, relief, 
and at times even cure from one — perhaps more than 
one — of the most terrible diseases, with which it is 
afflicted. 

The proposition, then, was very simple. 

On one side, Bronk. 

On the other. Humanity. 

On one side, an old rascal who has, as Agnes justly 
said, deserved death a hundred times, and who, 
besides, was going to die anyway within a very short 
time. 

On the other side. Science, on the point of unearth- 
ing a great discovery — a discovery of which he would 
be the author. 

He pauses. He notices suddenly that down his 
forehead, his neck, the backs of his hands, the per- 
spiration is trickling. 

Why this weakness? 

Does it spring from horror of this crime, the possi- 
bility of which he is admitting? 

Or does it come from fear over the loss of his 
experiments ? 

He must think it over; he n>ust look into this mat- 
ter from every side. 

What harm would ensue from the death of Bronk ? 
He can see none. 

All the arguments are on the other side. If he felt 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


77 


the scruples of Agnes, or held the beliefs of Mr. Ben- 
well as to Conscience, or even entertained the theories 
of Halford as to the power of Circumstance, he might 
hesitate. He does not, however, share any of these 
views. Why, then, should he draw back ? 

What is there to dread ^ What is there to fear? 

Remorse ? Has he not conclusively proved that 
intelligent people do not have remorse, when they 
have once thought a matter well over and decided 
that it is for the best to undertake a given action ? 
Has not his analysis demonstrated that with such 
people what is commonly termed remorse comes 
before, not after? Has this analysis not shown that 
remorse is simply, after all, a sort of regretful doubt? 
That’s precisely where he is now — in the remorse 
stage. 

What is there to be afraid of? 

Of being caught ? But intelligent people do not let 
themselves get caught. The low, coarse brutes ; the 
half-intelligent fellows, who concoct intricate and 
theatric schemes in which their game is betrayed 
at every turn — those are the ones who get caught. 
He, a man of science and precision, would be 
able to devise a plan perfectly safe to follow out. 
Suppose he had strangled Bronk that afternoon ; who 
would suspect him ? A doctor does not strangle his 
patients. A doctor kills with poison, or in some 
scientific way. The method of the murder indicates 
the status of the — assassin. 

A few minutes before he was excited and warm ; 
this last word seems to freeze him up. 

He rises impatiently from his chair and walks nerv- 
ously up and down the room. 


78 


PHILIP HENSON, M. I). 


Assassin ! It sounds horrible ; but, after all, it is 
only a word. Is he the man to let himself be influ- 
enced by a mere name ? How about the fellows who 
stand high in the world ; who have made their mill- 
ions. Have they left no skeletons behind them in 
their path ? To-day they are honored and respected, 
because of their success. Would they have achieved 
that success if they had not had the force to triumph 
over ordinary scruples ? 

Certainly, violence is not a pleasant thing ; it would 
be much more agreeable to make one’s way by dint of 
intelligence and hard work ; but, unfortunately, the 
fatalities of life will often not allow one to follow the 
road one would like best. 

If, again, Bronk had heirs; poor people who would 
derive benefit from his fortune — there would be a con- 
sideration which would influence him strongly. Thief ! 

He hates the name worse than the other ! Who, 

though, would be the worse off by the few greenbacks 
he might take from that old safe in Bronk’s office? 
To steal — that is to deprive somebody of something. 
Whom would he deprive? He cannot see any 
such one. On the other hand, he sees very dis- 
tinctly the army of the afflicted whom he can benefit. 

A sharp ring of his night-bell at that moment makes 
him start frightfully. Why this ridiculous nervous- 
ness — he who is usually so thoroughly master of him- 
self ! With a gesture of impatience, he goes to the 
door. Outside he finds a man, dressed like a work- 
man, who addresses him very respectfully, almost 
apologetically. 

“ Very sorry to disturb you. Doctor, so late as this,” 
he mumbles. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


79 


‘^Whatisit?” 

“ I have come to you about my wife.” 

‘‘ What’s the matter with her ? ” 

‘^An increase in the family, Doctor,” replies the 
man, naively. “ We have a midwife there, but some- 
thing’s gone wrong, and she told me to go as fast as I 
could for a doctor.” 

“ Did the midwife send you to me ? ” 

“ No, Doctor,” stammers the man ; “ she sent me 
for Dr. Creelman.” 

“ Well, why don’t you go to him ?” 

‘‘ I did ; but they shouted down to me through the 
night-tube that he was out. Then coming up the 
street, I saw your sign.” 

“Very well ; I will go.” 

“ One minute, Doctor,” says the man, hesitatingly ; 
“ I just want to say to you that I’ve been out of work 
this week, and I haven’t any money just now. I can’t 
pay right away.” 

“All right,” answers Henson. “Wait for me here 
a moment.” 

He goes back into the house, takes his instruments, 
and starts out with the man. 

“Where do you live?” he asks, as they turn down 
the avenue. 

“ Fifth Street, between Second and Third avenues,” 
is the answer. 

It is to the second floor of a tenement house that 
the man leads the way. As Henson enters the poor, 
but rather neatly-kept rooms, the midwife hurries 
forward to meet him. She seems excited and anxious. 

“ It is a very serious case. Doctor — a case of malfor- 
mation,” she hurriedly explains. 


8o 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


'‘The child is living?” 

“ Yes.” 

Henson walks to the bed and carefully examines 
the patient, who is very nervous and fretful. 

I think I am going to die. Oh, save me. Doctor ; 
you will save me, won’t you ? ” 

“ We will take good care of you,” he replies, gently. 
" I promise you that ; so don’t be frightened.” 

The patient looks up into his face-^a face full of 
calmness and resolution, and she seems to gain con- 
fidence and courage. 

Having completed his examination, Henson steps 
into the adjoining room and takes off his coat. 

“ Bring me an apron,” he says to the midwife, turn- 
ing up his shirt sleeves. 

She obeys his direction, and as he ties the apron 
around him, she ventures to whisper an inquiry. 

“ An operation is necessary, Doctor ? ” she asks. 

"Yes, embryotomy,” he answers, in a low voice. 
" To save the mother, we shall have to kill the child.” 

" Oh, can nothing else be done?” asks the woman, 
with feminine compunction. 

" Nothing ; we have delayed only too long already.” 

The operation is long, difficult and hazardous, and 
after it is completed, Henson finds it necessary to 
remain for some time with the patient. When, at 
last, he leaves the night is far advanced. As he walks 
along the street, silent and almost deserted, his 
thoughts at once turn back to the point at which they 
were interrupted. Here, he thinks to himself, is a 
striking instance ! A few minutes ago, he did not 
hesitate about killing this child, who, perhaps, had 
fifty, sixty, even eighty years of happy life before it ; 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


8i 


and yet, he hesitates over Bronk, who has only a mis- 
erable existence of a few weeks, or days, to drag out. 
Promptly and with decision he has acted when only 
the interest of a poor, sickly, tenement-house woman 
was at stake ; with his own interest, and that of 
humanity at large in the balance, he is undecided, 
irresolute, even cowardly. What a contradiction ’ 

As he walks along the side of Tompkins Market, a 
rat runs so close before him as to almost pass over his 
foot. Looking on the ground to avoid treading on 
one of the rodents, which seem thick around here, he 
notices something lying on the sidewalk which flashes 
in the gaslight. Stepping nearer to it, he scrutinizes 
the object more closely. It is a knife, a large knife, 
such as butchers use in the slaughter houses. Some 
man connected with the market has probably dropped 
it on his way to or from work. 

For a moment, Henson stands irresolute. He 
glances around him. The street is deserted ; there is 
no one in sight. Suddenly, with a quick movement, 
he stoops and picks up the knife. 

Then, he walks on rapidly. 


CHAPTER IX. 

When Henson wakes up next morning, after a 
rather insufficient period of rest, he does not at first 
think of the knife. He feels somewhat tired and 
worn out, like a man who has overworked himself on 
the previous day. Accustomed as he is to late hours, 
he is at a loss to account for this feeling of fatigue. 


82 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Dressing rapidly, in the determination to shake off this 
lassitude, he soon completes his toilet and is on the 
point of leaving his bedroom when suddenly he 
catches sight of the knife, which on coming in last 
night he has thrown upon the mantlepiece. Instantly 
a thrill runs through him from head to foot, dispelling 
all sense of fatigue. 

Approaching the mantelpiece, he takes the knife 
and, going to the window, examines it. It is a long, 
straight-bladed instrument, with a rough, strong han- 
dle — a wicked-looking instrument whose blade, evi- 
dently recently sharpened, is as keen as a razor. 

At once there comes to him the plan which had 
more or less distinctly outlined itself in his mind dur- 
ing his walk home in the night. This plan floats 
before him as a species of vision, in which the minut- 
est details are clearly defined. It is half-past five 
o’clock — that is to say, just the time when Bronk’s 
clerk has left, the building is pretty well emptied of 
its occupants, and the old scrub-woman has nearly 
finished cleaning the stairs leading to the ground floor. 
A few minutes more and she finishes her work and 
returns to the upper floors, presumably not to descend 
again until a quarter past six when, as Bronk has told 
him, she locks up the building for the night. Once 
she is out of the way, he can, with ordinary precau- 
tion, ascend quickly to Bronk’s office without being 
seen. He has then half an hour in which to descend 
before the building is locked up for the night. What 
will transpire during that half hour, he does not stop 
to dwell upon. 

And when is this plan to be put in execution ? 

It is Friday, the 30th day of the month. It is only 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


33 


during August that the clerk is to get off at five. 
Saturday is the last day of the month, and on Sat- 
urdays Bronk probably goes away from his office 
early. 

By heaven ! to-day is the last chance. It must be 
to-day, or never. 

This very day. He feels his heart beating with 
great thumps, and a chill passes over him. 

This feeling of emotion is, however, quickly suc- 
ceeded by a sense of irritation. Does he know, or 
does he not know, his own mind? Can he not decide, 
one way or the other; to do, or not to do? Why so 
much hesitancy and irresolution ? 

Allowing his thoughts to drift for a moment, he 
recalls a phenomenon he has at various times noticed, 
going to show that with many people the qualities of 
character and determination are much less strongly 
marked in the morning than at night. Does this 
spring from a species of dualism of the nervous cen- 
tres, and is human individuality formed on a dual 
basis like the brain? Are there periods when the 
right hemisphere exerts the controlling power, and 
other periods when the left is in the ascendancy? 
Does one of these hemispheres possess certain quali- 
ties which the other does not, and are the character 
and actions of the individual shaped according to the 
particular hemisphere which is in control ? Assuming 
this theory to have any foundation in fact, a man 
might be possessed of the docility of a lamb at one 
period of the twenty-four hours ; and at another, swell 
with all the ferocious instincts of the tiger. In his 
case evidently, the lamb preponderates in the morn- 
ing, while the tiger rages at night. 


84 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Before long, however, he rouses himself and brushes 
aside these speculations. A nice time, he exclaims to 
himself, to indulge in the following out of theories of 
this kind. It is of Bronk he must think, and of his 
plan. 

Evidently this affair is not quite so easy as he at 
first imagined. There are a number of questions to be 
well thought over and weighed before entering upon 
the execution of so hazardous an undertaking. He 
must think matters well over. 

Taking his hat and cane he leaves the house and 
after breakfasting goes direct to Central Park. Hav- 
ing reached a secluded portion of the park, he feels, as 
he walks along, that he is able to think clearly and at 
his ease. 

The risks in this matter are certainly quite serious ; 
a good deal more so, in fact, than he at first realized. 
Suppress Bronk, good. Get caught — that would 
never do. 

Really, this scheme, he decides, is too dangerous. 
It must be given up ; it is no use being pig-headed 
and doing anything that is absolutely foolish. He 
must look upon all this he has been thinking over as a 
mere dream ; a sort of nightmare, that is about all. 
Since this plan is impossible — well ; there is nothing 
but to abandon it. 

He stops for a moment in his walk, and then, 
abruptly turning, begins to make his way back toward 
the park gates. 

He has hardly gone a hundred yards, however, when 
he finds himself asking the question if these dangers 
he has thought out are really as great as he has pic- 
tured them and cannot, with skill, be overcome. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


85 

At the hour he has set for calling on Bronk, 
he reasons, the building is really pretty well de- 
nuded of occupants. In neither of his previous 
visits has he encountered, either in going up or com- 
ing down, any one except the old scrub-woman on the 
point of finishing her work on the stairs. All he has 
to do is to wait a few minutes until she is out of the 
way and then, if he has the same luck that he had on 
both his previous visits, he can go up and return 
unseen. All that is necessary is to get back before a 
quarter past six, when the scrub-woman, or janitress, 
descends to lock the door. 

But what if somebody should call upon Bronk while 
he is with him ? Oh, that is easily settled, for he 
remembers the spring lock which closes at the lightest 
and most careless brush against the catch, or even by 
shutting the door hard. Suppose, though, he should 
find somebody already with Bronk? Well, in that 
case, as also in the event of any other unforeseen com- 
plications arising, luck will be against him, and the 
scheme will simply have to be abandoned. 

Another thing. If everything goes well and the 
undertaking succeeds, he will have money. Very 
good ! How, though, to account satisfactorily for the 
possession of this money, at a time when he is known 
by a number of people to be particularly hard pressed ? 
Well , never mind about that now ; he has already 
several plans in view which will arrange that. Time 
enough to decide which of . these plans he shall adopt 
— afterward. 

Once more he goes over the ground before him bit 
by bit, deciding clearly beforehand what he shall do in 
the event of this or that emergency arising ; how, 


86 


PHILIP PIENSON, M. D. 


again, he shall act if something else is the case. At 
last, when every imaginable contingency has been 
provided for, and every possible line of action he may 
be called upon to follow mapped out, he makes his 
way back with some difficulty to one of the main 
paths and leaves the park. 

A few minutes before five o’clock he enters a res. 
taurant in East Forty-second Street, with the proprie- 
tor of which he is acquainted. The proprietor himself 
happens to be behind the desk. After finishing his 
meal, Henson steps up to him. 

Can you cash me a small cheque ? ” he asks, draw- 
ing a blank cheque from his pocket. 

“ How much. Doctor ? ” 

“Ten dollars.” 

“ With pleasure.” 

Henson fills out the cheque and receives the money. 

“ Is that the right time? ” he asks, suddenly glanc- 
ing up at the clock above the desk and drawing out 
his watch. 

The proprietor looks at the clock and then con- 
sults his own watch. 

“ A quarter past five. Right to the minute. Doctor.” 

“ So it is. I had no idea it was so late. I must be 
off — have to see a patient in Nineteenth Street,” 
exclaims Henson, hurriedly, as he makes his exit. 

“ That, I think, will fix the time in his mind,” he 
mutters to himself as soon as he is in the street. “ As 
for the day, the date on the cheque settles that. It 
may possibly be useful some day to show that I was 
in Forty-second Street at a quarter past five o'clock 
on August 30th. Who knows ? It is as well to pro- 
vide for everything.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 8/ 

Making his way quickly to the Forty-second Street 
station, he boards an elevated railway train and a few 
minutes later steps off at the Twenty-third Street 
station. Here, however, he encounters an unex- 
pected obstacle. For some time past the sky has 
been quite overcast, and while on his way downtown 
in the train it has begun to rain quite heavily. As he 
arrives at the Twenty-third Street station, the summer 
storm reaches its height, the rain coming down in 
sheets. 

Impossible to go through such rain as that. He 
would get soaked from head to foot. A man in that 
condition is apt to attract attention, and attention is 
at this moment precisely what he must not attract. 
He walks down the steps of the station and tries to 
get a cross-town car, but every car that passes is 
crowded to its utmost capacity, and he notices that 
the people on the rear platform are getting quite wet. 
There is nothing for it but to wait. Ah, but while he 
is waiting, time is slipping by and with it his last 
opportunity. Is his whole elaborately devised plan to 
be swept aside by a simple summer shower! Really, 
Halford’s theory as to Circumstance seems to have 
remarkable corroboration at times. 

Not this time, however. For, in a few minutes, the 
shower dies away as quickly as it has sprung up and 
Henson is able to secure standing room on one of the 
cars, without being in danger of getting wet. At 
Fifth Avenue he jumps from the car. It is nineteen 
minutes to six. 

A moment later, he is before the door of Bronk’s 
building. 


88 


PHILIP HENSON» M. D. 


CHAPTER X. 

Slowly passing the door and peering through the 
entrance, he sees no sign of the old scrub-woman. 
Stopping before the photograph frame as if to examine 
the portraits, he looks up the stairs. She is not there, 
and the marks of recent scrubbing in the lower hall 
indicate to him that she has completed her work and 
is now out of the way. 

Yes, the road is clear; no one going up or coming 
down. With a few quick strides he is up the stairs, 
and reaches the door of Bronk’s office. So far, all 
safe. He has neither met nor seen anybody. 

With a quick turn of the handle, he opens the door 
and steps in. Luck is still with him. There is no 
clerk ; the outer office is empty. 

Before Bronk has shuffled out from the inner room, 
he has shut the door and with a light touch of the 
finger against the catch of the spring lock snaps it 
to. The door is locked. 

Turning, he faces the money-lender, who appears 
at that instant in the doorway of his private office. 

“Oh, it’s you, Doctor,” exclaims Bronk. “Come 
in ; come right in.” 

Henson follows him quickly into the inner room 
which, the day having remained dark after the storm, 
is quite brilliantly lighted by the lamp on the writing 
table. 

“Well, is there anything new?” asks Bronk, as he 
seats himself. 

“No.” 

“ I suppose, then,” continues the money-lender, 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


89 

wheeling around in his chair and looking at Henson 
with a meaning grin, “you have, come to speak to me 
about my young friend ? If that is the case, speak 
out, my dear sir; don’t be afraid to speak out.” 

“ I have not come to speak to you about her,” 
answers Henson, with some impatience. 

“ Oh — oh — sorry to hear that.” 

While he speaks, Henson has drawn out his watch 
and holds it in his hand, as he sits facing Bronk. 
Three minutes have run by since he left the lower 
hall. He has no time to lose. So as to the better 
keep, track of the minutes, he continues to hold his 
watch in his hand. Bronk notices this. 

“You are in a hurry?” he asks, with some sur- 
prise. 

“ Yes — only a few minutes to spare. Let us get to 
the point right away. I have come to make a last 
appeal to you ; let us be open and above board with 
each other. You conclude, I know, that being so 
fearfully hard pressed, driven straight to the wall, I 
can be induced to take this young woman you talk 
about.” 

“ Oh, my dear sir,” exclaims Bronk, with a depreca- 
tory grimace, “ how can you suppose that I — ” 

“ Excuse me,” interrupts Henson, with an impa- 
tient gesture; “but that is just your calculation. 
Well, I may as well say to you right now that you 
have made a mistake ; I will never lend myself to any- 
thing of the kind. Put this matter aside, then, and 
let us come back to my first proposition. I need five 
hundred dollars. Get this sum for me, and name your 
own terms.” 

“ I have already told you, my dear sir,” answers 


go PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

Bronk, that I cannot find anybody willing to make 
the loan.” 

“ Why not make it yourself.^” 

“ I?*' 

“ Yes ; you.” 

“ I never lend, personally.” 

Remember, this is a final appeal I am making to 
you,” exclaims Henson, with feeling. “ I can under- 
stand that a man in your business becomes in course 
of time hardened and indifferent to the troubles of 
others. Will you not, though, let yourself be moved 
by the despair of a man who has so much before him 
and who is on the point of losing everything for the 
lack of such a paltry sum — ” 

A paltry sum ! ” exclaims Bronk, throwing up his 
hands. “ Five hundred dollars, you call a paltry 
sum !” 

^‘Comparatively. To you, the risk is so little; to 
me, the lack of it means — death.” 

While speaking, Henson’s eyes are upon his 
watch, keeping track of every minute. He now 
raises them to Bronk’s face> to note what effect his 
words are producing. As he does so, he makes a dis- 
covery which completely sweeps aside all his previous 
calculations. 

Bronk’s private office has one large window which 
looks out on some gardens in the rear of the private 
houses in West Twenty-second Street. He has never 
before given any attention to this window, but now 
that the room is lighted up he at once perceives that 
anybody can look in from the Twenty-second Street 
houses. True, the window is furnished with a large 
green shade, but it is not drawn down. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


91 


“I have no money to lend. I never lend, per- 
sonally,” repeats Bronk, clapping his hand to his jaw, 
apparently once more assailed by his neuralgic pains. 

Henson rises, his eyes still turned toward the win- 
dow. To risk doing anything here would certainly 
be madness. There is evidently nothing left but to go. 

He reaches toward his hat when, suddenly, an idea 
flashes through his mind. Once more he looks at his 
watch. It is four minutes to six. 

“ Why don’t you pull down that blind?” he asks; 
“your neuralgia proceeds, no doubt, a good deal from 
the draughts from that window.” 

You think so ? ” 

“ I am sure of it. You ought to avoid even the 
slightest draughts.” 

Quickly stepping behind Bronk’s chair, he seizes the 
cord of the blind and gives it a sharp pull. The end 
of the blind is, however, caught beneath the roller, 
and resists his best efforts to pull it loose. 

“Let me assist you,” exclaims Bronk; and as he 
speaks, he seizes the large lamp on the table and holds 
it above Henson’s head so as to enable him to see 
where is the hitch above. 

Stepping on a chair, Henson detaches the blind 
from beneath the roller and pulls it down to its full 
length. All this is done with a feverish rapidity of 
movement which astonishes Bronk. 

“You seem to be in a very great hurry,” he 
remarks. 

“Yes — quite in a hurry.” 

He looks at his watch. 

‘ Still,” he continues, “ I have yet time to give 
you treatment.” 


92 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Oh, I don’t want to impose — ” 

'' Sit down and let me look at your mouth.” 

As Bronk seats himself, Henson steps behind him. 

“ You see,” he remarks, in a low voice, “ I do good 
for evil.” 

“ How so, my dear sir?” 

“You refuse me an act of assistance which means 
my salvation ; and I, I strive to stop your pain. It is 
for the last time, though.” 

“ Why the last time ? ” 

“ Because death is between us.” 

“ Death ! ” 

“ Yes ; do you not see it ? 

“No.” 

“ I do ; very clearly.” 

“You musn’t, my dear sir, have ideas of that kind. 
One does not kill one’s self for the sake of five hun- 
dred dollars.” 

The chair in which Bronk is seated is an old-fash- 
ioned arm-chair, with a high stuffed back, which 
reaches pretty well to his shoulders. As he sits well 
forward in this chair and leans backward, his mouth, 
chin and throat are turned full up to Henson. 

Standing behind the chair, Henson places his left 
hand upon Bronk’s forehead. His right is behind him, 
at his hip pocket. There is an instant’s pause. Sud- 
denly, Henson presses his left hand sharply down. 
Then, quick as a lightning flash, he draws the knife 
from behind him and with one swift, powerful stroke 
cuts Bronk’s throat from ear to ear. Jugulars, carotids 
and the larynx, just beneath tffe epiglottis, are alike 
severed in the stroke, and from this terrible wound 
spurt out three great jets of blood which, plashing 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


93 


down, stream over the floor of the office. Not a cry, 
not a sound, save a low gurgling in the throat, escapes 
Bronk, whose body lying back in the chair is agitated 
by frightful convulsions. The arms, the legs, the 
trunk are all a-quiver, and in the meantime the blood 
continues to jut and spurt and flow from the ghastly 
opening in the throat. It has spread across the floor 
now as far as the wall where, splitting into two, 
streams, it creeps along the skirting board in either 
direction. 

With an abrupt movement, Henson throws the 
knife to the ground, where it falls with a ring. Step- 
ping from behind the chair, he notes, watch in hand, 
the progress of the convulsions agitating Bronk’s 
body. In a low voice, he counts the seconds — one, 
two, three, four. At twenty-three, the convulsions 
become so pronounced that they threaten to throw 
the body out of the chair and, placing his hand on the 
shoulder, Henson is obliged to hold it in place. At 
fifty-four, the convulsions come to a sudden stop ; only 
to be resumed, at sixty-one, with a frightful start and 
upward jerk of both arms and legs. At ninety-seven, 
they stop altogether. 

It is one minute past six; he has no time to waste. 

The great blotches of blood, which have rolled down 
the body, have soaked the front part of the coat and 
waistcoat through and through. The key of the safe 
is in one of the waistcoat pockets. Indifferent to the 
sight and smell of this mass of blood, Henson plunges 
his fingers into the thick and tepid pool and draws the 
key from the left hand pocket. It is bloody; so, bending 
down, he wipes it clean on one of the tails of Bronk’s 
coat. Then, turning, he introduces it into the lock. 


94 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Will it Open the safe? Or, is the combination 
closed? It is a moment full of sharp anxiety. He 
turns the key. All is well ; the door of the safe opens 
readily. 

On one of the shelves inside, he sees a few rolls of 
money done up in paper, and five little stacks of bills. 
These stacks, he sees at a glance, are divided into 
denominations ranging from twenties to ones. This 
is all he wants ; there is enough there for his purposes. 
He thrusts the money into his pockets and rises to 
his feet. Time is flying. It is five minutes past six. 

Extinguishing the lamp, and carefully picking his 
way to the door of the outer offlce, so as to avoid 
stepping in the blood, he listens. There is no sound 
outside. He gently opens the door and peers out. 
Now is the supreme moment of danger. There is, 
however, not a soul in sight. Stepping out, and clos- 
ing the door after him, he goes quickly, but without 
too much show of haste, down the stairs. He reaches 
the outer door without meeting anybody. 

The next instant he is in the' street, mingling with 
the crowds of shop girls who are pouring out of the 
stores. 


CHAPTER XL 

At last he can breathe at his ease. There is no 
longer any need, to hold his breath and watch and 
listen and be on his guard. 

His first thought is to note the feelings which he 
experiences. He finds that he is filled with a great 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


95 


sense of relief, as if some oppressive weight had been 
lifted from him. He very certainly experiences no 
feeling of moral agitation — no regret, or remorse. He 
was, then, quite correct in his theory that with the 
intelligent man remorse precedes the action, and does 
not follow it. 

Where he was mistaken, though, was in imagining 
that he would carry out this undertaking with a cool- 
ness and a strength of mind which, as a matter of fact, 
he has been altogether wanting in. He has, by no 
means, been the man of force and determination he 
had supposed himself to be — a man going straight 
toward his end without flinching, thoroughly master 
of his mind and of his nerves. His hand, it is true, 
had been firm and sure ; but his head had been on fire. 

Little time has he, however, to .give to reflections of 
this nature, for certain things yet remain to be done. 
Although he feels sure he has not been seen either 
going in or coming out, yet he would like to make 
certain that he is not being followed. He accordingly 
begins to walk rapidly, and turns successively into 
several side streets. He keeps a sharp lookout after 
turning each corner to see if there is any one behind, 
and soon satisfies himself that he is not being fol- 
lowed. Smiling at himself for taking what he regards 
as an unnecessary and almost puerile precaution, he 
sets out at a quick pace for his rooms. 

Arrived there, he at once makes a careful inspection 
of his boots and his clothes. The precaution he took 
of placing himself well behind the chair has proved a 
good one. The blood in spurting out from either side 
of the neck, has not touched him. The fingers of his 
right hand are red and the cuff on his right wrist has 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


96 

several splashes; but this is of no consequence. A 
doctor has the right to have blood on his cuffs. Los- 
ing no time, he washes his hands, changes his cuffs, 
and quickly starts out again. 

Jumping on a car, he rides the short distance from 
his house to Nineteenth Street, and then walks over 
as fast as he can to Fourth Avenue. It is ten minutes 
to seven. He calls upon a patient, an old lady 
named Griffiths, whom he has been attending for some 
time. She is suffering from a painful abscess in the 
ankle joint, and Henson apparently finds it necessary 
to give quite extended attention. It is half-past seven 
before his work is completed, and the patient has 
necessarily, suffered a good deal of pain. 

“ I am sorry to have given you so much suffering,” 
remarks Henson. 

“ It was very painful to-day. Doctor,” answers the 
old lady, feebly. 

“Yes; there was a good deal to be done. It was 
quite a long operation. Gracious ! ” glancing at his 
watch ; “ I did not think it had taken as much time as 
this, though. How long do you think I have been 
with you ? ” 

“ I don’t quite know, Doctor. The clock struck six 
some time -before you came in.” 

“ Yes ; it must have been a few minutes before I 
arrived, for it is now just half-past seven and I have 
been with you nearly an hour and a half.” 

“ It seemed to me fully that. Doctor, I assure you,” 
answers the old lady, with a faint smile. 

Before leaving, Henson writes a prescription, which 
he particularly impresses upon the patient must be 
made up and taken at once. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. I>. 


97 


When he finds himself once more in the street, he 
feels well satisfied with himself. He feels that if ever 
called upon to do so, he can fairly well account for his 
time on this particular day. He can show that he was 
at Forty-second Street at a quarter past five that 
afternoon, the date being fixed by his check given to 
the restaurant keeper. His patient will testify to the 
fact that he was with her at a few minutes past six 
which, allowing for his being delayed by the rain 
storm, is not such an unreasonable time in which to 
make the journey. The date in this instance will also 
be fixed, alike by the entry in his visiting book and 
by the filing of his prescription at the drug store. As 
this prescription differs greatly in character and method 
of appliance from any he has ever before given, it 
will be readily remembered and identified by the pati- 
ent. Altogether, he is well satisfied with himself. 

From Nineteenth Street, he returns again to his 
rooms. There he finds a letter, which has been de- 
livered during his absence, lying on his writing table. 
He does not open it at once; he has for the moment 
something more important to attend to. The first 
thing to do is to take note of the contents of Bronk’s 
safe now in his possession. 

He takes the money from the various pockets into 
which he has thrust it and, putting it on the table, 
begins to look it over. There are forty twenty dollar 
bills, making eight hundred dollars, and the rest is in 
bills of smaller denominations, amounting to a total 
sum of over eleven hundred dollars. The paper rolls 
contain simply small change in silver, amounting to 
less than ten dollars. 

He is satisfied. It is more than enough for his pur- 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


98 

poses. He did not kill Bronk to get thousands ; but 
simply to get five hundred dollars. The sum he has 
in excess of that amount, far from giving him pleasure, 
he looks upon as a species of encumbrance. For a 
moment, the idea comes to him to burn up this super- 
fluous money ; but he quickly discards this as an act 
of cowardice unworthy of an intelligent man. He is 
very careful, though, to at once burn up the paper 
around the silver rolls, and also the paper bands encir- 
cling the bills, on which are figures in Bronk’s hand- 
writing. 

Everything seems to him now settled, except the 
question of accounting for the possession of this 
amount of money. He walks up and down the room, 
thinking over various plans which he has already 
partly outlined. Presently he catches sight of the let- 
ter lying on his writing table. He may as well see 
what it is about. He opens it and reads: 

“ My dear Doctor:— As I shall not return to the 
city from Saratoga for some time, I send you the 
enclosed, together with my best thanks. You will, I 
know, be glad to learn that I am now feeling first- 
rate ; that the weather here is beautiful, the racing 
excellent, and that so far I have been remarkably 
successful in picking out the winners. 

“Yours very sincerely, 

“ Frank M. White.*’ 

Enclosed in the letter is a draft for fifty dollars. It 
is in payment for medical services rendered to the 
writer some time ago. 

Henson throws down the letter with a cry of satis- 
faction. This letter suggests the very plan he is in 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


99 


search of. White is in Saratoga and betting on the 
races. Why shall he not go to Saratoga, too, and 
gamble on the races? Who shall say whether he has 
won or lost? and he will take good care to have it 
understood that he has won. In this way, the posses- 
sion of this money may readily be accounted for. 

With a satisfied feeling of having now attended to 
everything, he goes out to dine. For a short time, he 
enjoys the pleasant feeling of a man who has de- 
spatched a quantity of important business and has- 
now before him a welcome period of rest. In the 
course of dinner, however, a question crops up in his 
mind and keeps recurring to him with constantly 
increasing persistency. What is taking place now in 
West Twenty-third Street? 

Has IT been discovered? 

At first he tries to thrust aside all thought on this 
subject, but gradually the idea grows upon him until 
he can think of nothing else. Bringing his dinner to a 
close, he leaves the restaurant and turns in the direC' 
tion of Twenty-third Street. 

Arrived at that thoroughfare, he walks slowly 
through the street on the uptown side of the way. 
Passing the building in which his interest is so 
acutely centred, he notices nothing unusual. Making 
the complete circuit of the block, he passes it a 
second time. He must not continue this, he reasons 
to himself. To keep haunting the neighborhood in 
this way is not a very wise thing, for it might possibly 
attract attention. Besides, why should he persist in 
imagining that Bronk’s death will be discovered 
to-night ? What more likely than that it will not be 
found out until to-morrow? 


100 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Dragging himself almost forcibly away from this 
point of morbid attraction, he walks over to Broad- 
way. He is passing the Fifth Avenue Hotel when he 
hears his name called and turning, he sees Halford 
standing beside the porch, under which he has just 
been talking to a group of Republican politicians. 

“Just the man I want to see,” exclaims Halford. 
“What’s the use,” with a laugh, '‘having a doctor for 
a friend, anyway, unless he can do you some good ! ” 

“ Can I be of any good to you ? ” 

“Yes ; I want you to give me something to set me 
to rights. I feel quite bad. Headache, dizzy; feel all 
out of order.” 

“Well, we will see if we can’t fix that. Let us go 
somewhere where I can look at you and write you a 
prescription. Shall we step into the hotel ? ” 

“No; too noisy there. I have just sent my copy 
down to the office and am through for the night. 
Let us go to some quiet place.” 

“ Where is there one around here? ” 

“Let us go to Sixth Avenue.” 

“Very well.” 

They walk slowly arm in arm through Twenty-third 
Street, Henson questioning Halford as to his ailments. 
Having walked beyond the middle of the block 
between Fifth and Sixth avenues, Henson notices a 
small but well-kept saloon in the basement, almost 
directly fronting Bronk’s building. The swinging 
half-doors, in fancy wicker-work, are fastened back to 
admit, evidently, of cooling passages of air, and near 
the entrance are several small tables. 

“That looks like a nice quiet place,” remarks Hen- • 
“ Why not go in there ? ” 


son. 


PHILIP PIENSON, M. I). lOI 

Halford readily consents, and they take their seats 
at the little table nearest the door. From there, 
Henson has an uninterrupted view across the way. 
He writes a prescription for Halford and contrives to 
make the conversation take an interesting turn. Pres- 
ently Halford talks of going, but Henson orders 
cigars and the talk is resumed anew. Most of the 
talking is done by Halford, Henson putting in a word, 
or asking a question, whenever the conversation 
threatens to languish, his eyes never losing sight of 
the dark front of the building across the way. 

They have been seated there for an hour or more, 
when suddenly there is a commotion across the street. 
A man in his shirt sleeves appears on the sidewalk, 
acting excitedly. Two or three passers-by stop and 
speak to him ; in a few minutes a small crowd 
gathers. 

Halford, with the quick instinct of a newspaper 
man, notices these movements. 

“ There’s something up over there,” he exclaims. 
“ Let’s see what it is.” 

They cross the street together. 

“What’s the matter here?” asks Halford of the 
man in the shirt sleeves. 

“ There’s something queer up there,” answers the 
man, jerking his thumb toward the stairs, and turning 
a pale face to Halford. “ It looks as if—” 

He pauses, hesitating, and evidently much excited. 

“As if what?” demands Halford, impatiently. 

“ A.S if,” answers the man, slowly, “ up there, two 
flights in the back, murder has been done.” 


102 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Murder ! ” exclaims Halford, with the ghoulish 
enthusiasm of the news-gatherer. “A murder, eh?” 
That’s something like a piece of news. What makes 
you think, though, there has been a murder? ” 

The man explains that he is the son of the janitress 
and that, while making his round of the building the 
last thing before retiring for the night, he has noticed 
something outside one of the office doors. It looks 
like a pool of blood. 

“ Perhaps it’s a suicide,” remarks Halford, specula- 
tively. •' 

“ No, it’s no suicide,” answers the man, with con- 
viction. “ He warn’t by no means the kind to sui- 
cide.” 

“ Well,” continues Halford, “ why don’t you go in 
and see what’s the matter? You have a pass-key I 
suppose ? ” 

“ I’m a scared to,” answers the man, frankly. 
“ Besides, I ain’t got no pass-key for that door. The 
gentleman is mighty particular and only lets us clean 
his office on Saturdays. He has his own lock on the 
door.” 

“Who is this gentleman? What is he?” inquires 
Halford. 

“ Mr. Bronk. He’s some kind of a broker.” 

“ Bronk ! ” exclaims Henson, who now speaks for 
the first time. “ Mr. Bronk, why I know him. I’m 
his physician ; he’s one of my patients.” 

“This is interesting,” exclaims Halford. “Let us 
go up and see what really is the matter.” 


PHILIP HENSON^ M. D. IO3 

Had we not better first call a policeman ? ’’ sug- 
gests Henson. 

“ Very well,” assents Halford. Here comes one 
now.” 

As he speaks, a policeman approaches rapidly and’ 
forces his way through the crowd. The officer knows 
Halford as a newspaper man, and as soon as he learns 
from him the state of affairs decides promptly upon an 
investigation. The janitor and the policeman, accom- * 
panied by Halford and Henson, enter the building 
and shut the front door in the faces of the fast gather- 
ing crowd. They pass upstairs, preceded by the jani- 
tor carrying a lighted lantern. Arrived before the 
door of Bronk’s office, they stop to examine the stains 
which first aroused the janitor’s suspicions. From 
under the door something dark and thick is oozing 
and forming a good sized patch on the boards outside. 

Henson stoops, coolly dips the point of his finger 
in the moisture, and then carefully examines it. 

“ It is blood sure enough,” he announces, quietly. 

The policeman does not wait for more. 

“ Have you keys to this door?” he demands of the 
janitor. 

The man repeats the explanation he has already 
made. 

Without further parley,> the officer takes his club 
and with three vigorous thrusts of its point shatters 
the ground glass forming the upper part of the door 
into fragments. He is about to pass through the 
opening thus made when the janitor stops him. 

“ I can open the door for you now,” he says, and 
thrusting his hand inside, he pulls back the spring lock. 
In the outer office they find two long, thin streams of 


104 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


blood which lead into the inner room. Passing into 
this inner room, they discover the motionless figure 
seated in the chair, the limbs rigid, the head thrown 
back, the gore all matted around the ghastly opening 
in the throat, and forming a species of horrible veil 
over the breast, the abdomen, the knees of the corpse. 

Snatching the lantern from the hand of the janitor, 
Henson holds it above the pallid face of the dead 
man, and examines the terrible wound in the throat. 
He examines one of the eyes, over which the glaze of 
death has settled, and tests the rigidity of the droop- 
ing limbs. 

As he does so, the thought flits through his mind of 
the old superstition as to the corpse bleeding afresh in 
the presence of the slayer. Why does not this corpse 
bleed afresh ? What nonsense these old saws are, 
about bleeding corpses, conscience, remorse, and all 
the -rest of it ! While these thoughts are passing 
rapidly through his mind, his manner is the perfection 
of professional calm. 

“The man’s throat has been cut,” he remarks, 
turning to the others. “ He has been dead for several 
hours ; nothing to be done.” 

“ Except to send for the Coroner,” chimes in the 
policeman. 

“And for me to get the-story down to the office, as 
it’s pretty late,” declares Halford. 

The policeman dispatches the janitor to the police 
station with the news of the murder, and remains on 
guard over the body, pending the arrival of the Cor- 
oner. Halford explains to Henson that they will not 
have long to wait, as the news will be telegraphed 
from the police station direct to Police Headquarters 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


105 


and the Coroner on duty will at once be notified. 
Lighting the lamp on the dead man’s table, Halford 
sits down almost facing the corpse and proceeds to 
write for his paper an elaborate story of the murder. 

“Just describe the exact character of that wound, if 
you please. Doctor. There’s nothing like getting 
things strictly accurate,’’ he says, presently, pausing 
for a moment in the compilation of his article ; and 
Henson complies with his request. 

In a remarkably short time, the Coroner arrives, 
accompanied by a half dozen reporters from the 
bureaus which the newspapers maintain opposite the 
police central office. Halford introduces his friend 
Dr. Henson to the Coroner, who is out of breath with 
the haste he has made, but at the same time affable in 
the possession of this .important case which will bring 
him ample mention in next morning’s newspapers. 
The Coroner greets Henson politely. Although him- 
self a physician, and living not far from Henson, he is 
not at all disposed to look upon this colleague as a 
rival. He goes in more for politics than for practice, 
finding that politics incidentally bring practice. As 
for his medical brethren, he wants their votes ; not 
their patients. 

His greeting over, he turns to the business before 
him. He examines the wound in the throat of the 
deceased, at the same time replying to the questions 
of the reporters crowding around him. 

“Yes, gentlemen,’’ he announces, “death has been 
produced by this cut in the throat, and a superficial 
examination discloses no further injuries. The cut in 
question has severed the jugular and carotid arteries 
on either side and the larynx immediately below the 


I 06 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

epiglottis. The victim’s head was presumably pushed 
backward at the moment of the stroke and conse- 
quently he was unable to utter the slightest cry. The 
loss of blood, as you perceive, gentlemen, was con- 
siderable and death probably supervened within a 
minute to a minute and a half. Am I not right, Doc- 
tor?’' he adds, turning to Henson. 

“Quite so. Coroner,” answers Henson, with pro- 
fessional gravity. “ Death must have ensued very 
fast. Just as you say, a minute and a half — two 
minutes, at the outside.” 

“ As for the motive,” continues the Coroner, point- 
ing to the open safe, “ that seems evident enough. 
It looks like a plain case of robbery and murder.” 

At this juncture, a ward detective, who has arrived 
a few minutes before, and who has been busily taking 
note of the surroundings, brings forward for the Cor- 
oner’s inspection the knife found on the floor. The 
reporters eye it critically, several of them making 
rough sketches of it for reproduction in their respect- 
ive newspaper. 

“A pretty bad looking weapon,” comments the 
Coroner, turning it over on every side in search of 
some name, or mark, to serve as a clew, of which, how- 
ever, there is none. 

“Is not that a knife such as butchers use?” ven- 
tures Henson, one of whose chief objects in remaining 
is to launch this theory. 

“That’s just what it looks like to me,” assents the 
Coroner. 

“ It is a butcher’s knife,” declares the ward detect- 
ive, positively. 

In the meantime, the latter is pursuing his part of 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


107 


the investigation. "He is anxious to do, or discover, 
something before the reporters leave, so that he, too, 
may come in for his share of mention. He questions 
the man who first discovered the crime, but soon finds 
the latter knows nothing. He simply assists in the 
evening his mother, who is a widow and the janitress 
of the building ; he discovered the blood stains out- 
side the office door and gave the alarm ; that is 
all. 

The detective sends for the janitress and questions 
her in the outer office. 

She knows all about the habits of Bronk, who has 
been an occupant of the building for a number of 
years. He came down to the office every morning at 
half-past nine, she explains, -and used to leave at six. 
He was alive that afternoon at five o’clock, she 
declares, for she saw him talking to his clerk at his 
office door, as she was cleaning down the stairs. 

“Are you quite sure it was five o’clock?’’ questions 
the detective. 

“Yes; it was five, or not more than a few minutes 
after,” answers the old woman. 

“ At what time do you lock up the building for the 
night ? ” 

“At a quarter past six.” 

“ Could anybody have entered the building after 
that unknown to you ? ” 

“No, sir; to get in they would have to ring for 
me, or my son, to come down and open the door.” 

“That brings the murder down to some time 
between five and a quarter past six,” comments the 
detective to the reporters. 

“After the clerk had left and while you were at 


io8 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


work on the stairs, did you notice any one going up 
to this floor?” he asks, resuming his questioning of 
the janitress. 

“ Mr. Bronk’s clerk passed' me going down and, 
after that, only one young man. I can recollect that 
well because the building is pretty well empty after 
five o’clock.” 

“You say a young man passed you. Was he going 
up or coming down ?” 

“ Going up, sir.” 

“ Do you know where to — what floor? ” 

“Yes, sir; he came to this floor; to Mr. Bronk’s 
office.” 

“ Oh — oh • ” exclaims the detective ; “ do you know 
who this young man was? ” 

“ I know him, but I do not know his name. He 
is a young inan who was once clerk with Mr. Bronk, 
but Mr. Bronk used to change his clerk so often that 
it was hard to keep track of them all.” 

“After you saw this young man enter this office, 
where did you go ? ” 

“ I kept on cleaning down the stairs.” 

“ Did you see or hear anything unusual around 
here ? ” 

“ Well, they seemed to have some kind of a quarrel, 
for I heard Mr. Bronk’s voice talking very loud.” 

“Ah!” comments the detective, “this sounds 
interesting. Did you see the young man come down 
again ? ” 

“Yes, he came down while I was at work in the 
lower hall.” 

“ Did you notice anything peculiar about him ?” 

“ No, except he seemed a bit flustered.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. IO9 

He seemed flustered — excited, did he, eh?” 

“Yes, kind of ; but, sir,” exclaims the old woman, a 
sudden light breaking in upon her, “ don’t you make 
any mistake and suspect that young man of this busi- 
ness. He never did it; he ain’t that kind. He’s a 
nice, respectable young man, and that I’ll guarantee.” 

“Nice, respectable young man, is he? Well, nevcr 
mind that. You are sure this nice, respectable young 
man was the only one who passed you on the stairs?” 

“ He was the only one. Stop, though,” she cries, 
suddenly, “ I recollect something now. While I was 
at work on the third floor, after I’d got through with 
the stairs, I did hear, come to think of it ! someone 
run up kind of quick, and walk along to the rear part 
of this floor. It must have been to Mr. Bronk he was 
going, because I heard a door open and shut and 
there was no one else’s office open at that time. Ah, 
I’ll venture that was the villain who did this work.” 

Despite his best efforts, Henson cannot stop the 
trembling of his knees. He is obliged to lean his 
shoulder against the wall to steady himself. The 
voice of the detective, as he propounds the next ques- 
tion, rings in his ears like a trumpet blast. 

“Who was this person? Did you see him?” 

For his very life, Henson cannot keep his straining 
eyes from the old woman’s face as he awaits the com- 
ing answer. She pauses, as if hesitating. It is a 
moment of intensest suspense. 

“ No,” she replies, at last, “ I did not see him, but I 
heard the footsteps plainly. They were those of a 
man, quick and heavy. Oh,” she repeats, with con- 
viction, “ I feel certain that was the rascal who did 
this piece of business.” 


1 10 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


The detective continues to cross-examine the old 
woman at great length, but without eliciting anything 
further of importance. An investigation is then made 
of the safe and discloses that it has been swept clean 
of money, although a number of valuable papers have 
been left untouched. 

“As you were the deceased’s physician. Doctor,” 
remarks the Coroner to Henson, as they are on the 
point of leaving, “perhaps you can give us some infor- 
mation about him which may prove of value?” 

“ No, I’m afraid not,” answers Henson. “ He had 
only been my patient for a very short time. For the 
past few days he has been attending to a little busi- 
ness matter for me. I may say to you that he was 
diabetic to the last degree, and that the murderer only 
shortened his life by a very brief period.” 

“Still, he shortened it, just the same, and that’s 
enough for me.” 

“ Oh, quite so. Besides, although the fellow seems 
quite clever at cutting throats, it is not probable that 
he is equally skilful in diagnosing disease.” 

“ Ha, ha ! very true,” assents the Coroner, with a 
laugh, and tugging playfully at his long blond side- 
whiskers. 

It is now quite late, and the reporters, having 
acquired all the information obtainable, are in a hurry 
to be off. The party accordingly goes down the stairs 
and hastily breaks up on the sidewalk. Bidding good 
night to the others, who are all bound down-tbwn, 
Henson starts homeward alone. 

“ Let them pursue their investigations,” he mutters 
to himself. “ The footsteps of an unseen person, and 
an unmarked knife which, it is conceded, evidently 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


1 1 1 

belongs to a butcher, seem the only clews so far. I 
wish them joy.” 

Reaching horfte, he at once goes to bed, tired out 
with all he has gone through during the day. He 
sleeps a deep, peaceful sleep, undisturbed by even the 
lightest dream. He awakens next morning, somewhat 
later than usual, and springing out of bed dresses 
rapidly. His first thought is of the newspapers. 
What do they say? Buying the eight morning dailies 
at the nearest news-stand he looks them over while 
waiting for his breakfast. The reporters have cer- 
tainly done the event full justice, each paper printing 
a column and a half, under flaring headlines. All the 
facts obtainable are detailed with the greatest minute- 
ness, and the scene presented upon the discovery of 
the body is narrated with a graphic realism calculated 
to make one’s blood curdle. Several of the news- 
papers contain interviews with Henson, as the phy- 
sician who was called in upon the discovery of the 
body, setting forth his views as to the manner in 
which the crime was perpetrated. After carefully 
reading the various accounts, Henson comes to the 
conclusion that they contain substantially nothing 
beyond the facts elicited in his presence the night 
before. The only new item he notices is contained in 
a small paragraph printed in one or two of the news- 
papers, briefly setting forth that the Chief of Detec- 
tives upon the murder being reported to him at once 
decided to take the case out of the hands of the pre- 
cinct police and has detailed two of the Central Office 
men to follow the matter up. 

Satisfied with what he finds in the newspapers, 
Henson turns his attention to his trip to Saratoga. 


1 12 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

Consulting a time-table, he finds that the next train 
leaves at noon. He makes up his mind he will take 
that train. Finishing his breakfast,^ he packs up a 
small valise, and then hurries around to Agnes’s house. 
This unusually early visit somewhat startles her. 

“Has anything happened?” she asks, apprehen- 
sively, noticing the evident haste he is in. 

“Nothing; I have simply come in for a moment 
to tell you that I leave by the next train for Sara- 
toga.” 

“ For how long ? ” 

“ Only a couple of days. I find it impossible to get 
in any way the money to pay Cauman — you saw, by 
the way, about Bronk’s murder in the newspapers this 
morning? ” 

“Yes, yes ; your name was mentioned, too. I read 
the interviews with you. Oh, how clearly and cleverly 
you described everything, my darling.” 

“ You think so ; thanks. Never mind about Bronk 
how, though ; there is no time. As I was saying, I 
cannot get the money to pay Cauman, and Bronk’s 
death means, I suppose, the loss of my last chance. I 
have just received some money from an acquaintance 
of mine who is in Saratoga, and who has been winning 
on the races. I am going to Saratoga to see if I, too, 
cannot with his help win some money in the same 
way. If I lose, I am no worse off, for what I have is 
not enough to do me any good. If, on the other 
hand, I win, as there is a chance, then all will be well.” 

“ My poor darling, how grieved I am to see you 
driven to this.” 

“You think I am wrong?” 

“ In my eyes, dearest, you are never wrong. If 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


II3 

you think this for the best, then go, my own, and 
remember that all my wishes, all my heart, go with 
you.’* 

‘‘You are sure you do not think ill of my plan?” 

“A thousand times no. What you think for the 
best, is the best. The king can do no wrong.” 

“Give me your hand, then.” 

She gives him both of them. She glances about 
her, as if to make sure no one is looking. Then, her 
hands still in his, she draws him to her and puts her 
lips to his. 

“ May fortune come to you, my poor, brave, sweet- 
heart ! ” 

There is a tear in the corner of each blue eye. 

“ I shall be back by Thursday, at latest,” he says, 
consolingly. 

“And you will come to me at once, before going 
anywhere else?” she asks, with just a suggestion of 
coquetry. * 

He does not answer in words, and yet his answer 
appears convincing and satisfactory. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Henson arrives in Saratoga on Sunday. No one 
knows less about betting or gambling than he, and he 
has calculated to spend Sunday in absorbing from 
White all possible information on the subject, so as to 
at least enable him to make a pretence of wagering his 
money intelligently. Arrived at Saratoga, however, he 
finds that White has run over to see some friends at 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


1 14 

that famous old hostelry, the Mohican House, Lake 
George, and will not be back until that night, or the 
following morning. He spends a portion of the day 
in carefully reading the very voluminous Sunday 
newspapers, which are full of the Bronk case, without, 
however, containing anything materially new beyond 
that set forth in the first accounts. 

White does not return that night, nor early the 
next morning, and Henson is much put out over his 
absence. There is, however, nothing to do but to 
wait ; it is absolutely necessary that he should have a 
witness, or witnesses, to the fact that he has gambled. 

Early in the afternoon, as he is strolling somewhat 
disconsolately before the Grand Union Hotel, he 
hears a voice at his side. 

Why, Doctor, you here?’' 

He recognizes the voice, and turning quickly to see 
if he is not mistaken and that it is indeed he who is 
addressed, he meets the outstretched hand of Frank 
White, the man he has so impatiently been waiting for. 

So glad is he, that he greets White with somewhat 
more warmth than is usual with him. From Henson’s 
opening words White learns that this is his first visit 
to Saratoga. 

“Your first visit here !” exclaims White, cordially. 
“ We must see if we can’t make things pleasant for 
you during the few days you have to stay, and try to 
show you what there is to be seen. First, let’s go and 
have some lunch.” 

Henson assents to this proposition, and after a quite 
substantial lunch has been disposed of, they stroll 
forth together “ to take the place in,” as White puts 
it. Within a few minutes after leaving the hotel, they 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


II5 

reach a large, handsome and brightly lighted house, 
surrounded by trimly-kept lawns studded with flower- 
beds and bordered with shade trees. 

“ Suppose we step into the club house ? '' remarks 
White. 

“The club house?’’ repeats Henson, questioningly. 

“ That’s so ; I keep forgetting you are a novice 
here,” exclaims White, with a laugh. “You must 
surely, though, have heard of this house — Hennessey’s 
old place, you know ? ” 

“ Hennessey’s place ? Oh, yes ; I think I remember. 
A sort of gambling house, is it not?” replies Henson, 
doubtfully. 

“Yes; you may call it a gambfing house, if you 
like,” laughs White, “but don’t look so shocked. 
You need not gamble; you can just go in and look on.” 

White, who is evidently no stranger to the “ club 
house,” leads the way through the broad entrance, 
nodding familiarly to the numerous attendants and to 
other persons whom they pass. They enter a large 
and softly carpeted room, where a number of players 
surround a board from which comes a sharp clinking of 
chips. Henson follows his companion to this table, 
around which some of the men are seated, while 
others stand behind them reaching down from over 
their shoulders. The table is covered in green leather, 
in which are imbedded thirteen ivory tablets painted 
to successively represent cards running from ace to 
king. The men seated, as also those standing behind 
them, hold in their hands chips of various colors. A 
man with a heavy black mustache, an impassive face, 
and white, but strong, nervous hands, and exceedingly 
deft fingers, is seated at the further side of the board, 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


1 16 

holding a silver box, with open top, from which he 
draws cards and lays them first on one side, then on 
the other. 

White sees his companion looking at all this with 
evident curiosity and interest. 

“You have never played faro?” he asks, with a 
smile at what he apparently regards as refreshing 
innocence. 

“ Never,” is Henson’s reply. 

“ I would hardly advise you to begin, then. I know 
it has emptied my pockets of a good many dollars.” 

Despite the advice he has just given, and the costly 
warnings he admits having received. White seems to 
have no intention of heeding either. Drawing a roll 
of bills from his pocket, he counts out five ten dollar 
bills and hands them across the table. In return, he 
receives an assortment of checks, with which he pro- 
ceeds to play. 

Fortune alternately smiles and frowns, but in the 
end her frowns outnumber her smiles and finally the 
last of the checks are swept into the drawer of the 
bank. 

“ Well ! that’s enough to show luck wants nothing 
to do with me to-day,” remarks White, with the resig- 
nation of a true gambler. 

Henson has watched the play closely, and an idea 
has come to him. He notices that the luck seems to 
lie with the bank and that several heavy players 
around the table are losing steadily. Why not follow 
these players, placing his bets just the reverse to 
theirs? In this way, if their ill-luck continues, he 
must win, and it will, in any event, be a simple way of 
placing his bets without knowing anything of the 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


II7 


game. Whether he wins or loses, he does not so 
much care ; the chief thing is to be enabled to prove 
that he has gambled. If he loses, he will drop in 
again later, alone, and subsequently announce to 
White that he has won. 

Taking fifty dollars from his pocket-book, he hands 
the money to White and asks him to buy checks with it. 

“ Yielding to temptation ? ” inquires White, with a 
smile. 

I have come here to win a few hundred dollars,^’ 
he replies. “If I can do it in this place, good ! If 
not, you must show me how to do it at the races.” 

“Depend upon me to do my best as to that,” 
replies White, with warmth. 

Having received his chips, Henson gives half of 
them to White, with the request that he play them 
for him on a partnership basis. With the other half, 
he starts in to play on the system he has already out- 
lined. From the start, luck is with him. He wins 
several bets, and growing bolder keeps playing with 
constantly increasing stakes. When one of the un- 
lucky players puts down a large bet, he plays the 
opposite way to a good amount. True, he loses every 
now and then under this system, but he wins a good 
many times more than he loses. Several good-sized 
bets, too, which with the confidence of one who feels 
he is in a lucky vein, he ventures independent of his 
system of “ coppering ” the wagers of others, turn out 
well, and in a.to him astonishingly short space of time 
he finds himself the winner of over four hundred dol- 
lars. Then, he is led into the difficult undertaking of 
attempting to call the turn. There is a king, a queen 
and an ace in the box. He calls the turn in two 


ii8 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


different ways — queen-king, and king-queen, each for 
fifty dollars. It comes out queen-king, and Henson 
finds himself now winner of over five hundred dollars 
in all. This is a good enough showing, and he 
decides to stop. White, too, has been lucky, to a 
more moderate extent, and has winnings amounting 
to over two hundred dollars, which are divided be- 
tween them, against White’s wishes, who wants Hen- 
son to take the full amount. 

• Having cashed in the checks. White starts to leave. 
Henson stops him, however, under the plea that he 
would like to watch the players a little longer. In this 
way, he contrives, to obtain introductions to several 
persons in the room who have seen him playing and 
who congratulate him on his good luck. The more wit- 
nesses to the fact that he has played and won, the better. 

“You were in great luck to-day,” remarks White, 
when finally they leave the house. “ I feel bound to 
warn you, though, that you must not expect to enjoy 
quite such luck as that every time you try.” 

“ I dare say not,” replies Henson. “ Still I mean to 
try the races to-morrow. I shall expect some good 
tips from you.” 

His unexpected good fortune at the faro table 
brings him little elation, as far as the actual money 
gain is concerned. He did not come here to win 
money, but simply to create a strong presumption 
that he had gambled and won. Now, he has done 
more than this. He has established indisputable 
proof of having actually won money in excess of the 
amount needed to settle with his creditors, and over 
this circumstance he is much gratified. Certainly 
things are going to perfection with him! Why could 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


II9 

this not all have happened so as to have obviated the 
necessity of that other affair? he reflects, with a vague 
feeling of regret. 

His object in coming to Saratoga is now fully 
accomplished, and he is at liberty to take the next 
train home. With an obstinacy peculiar to his nature, 
however, he will not do this. He came to Saratoga 
to gamble on the races, and gamble on the races 
before he goes back, he will. Accordingly, he starts 
out next morning for the race-track with White, well- 
primed with a quantity of race-course lore which that 
gentleman has imparted to him. 

Around the grand stand, Henson manages before 
long to lose White. The latter, anyway, is so occupied 
with his own betting that for the time being he has 
little attention to give to his friend. After several 
races have been run, however, Henson contrives to 
again come across White. He holds tickets on three 
winners, which he triumphantly displays. This result 
he has been enabled to accomplish by backing two or 
three of the most likely horses in each race, thus 
carrying out his original plan of showing a winning at 
all costs. The operation has not been pecuniarily 
profitable, but he does not care about that. 

“ You see,” he exclaims to White, “ I did not quite 
follow out your points, but backed my own judgment 
and luck.” 

“Luck!” cries White; “you’ve certainly lots of 
it. Why, man, if I had such a streak of luck on me 
as you have, Td stay here a couple of weeks and make 
my fortune. You bet. I’d follow up my luck, while 
it was on me, for all it was worth.” 

“ Which is just what I am not going to do,” rejoins 


120 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Henson, “ and which shows I have judgment as well 
as luck. I have won more than the suip I wanted, 
and I am going to get away without losing it again. 
There’s too much temptation here.” 

True to the determination thus expressed, he takes 
the train next morning for home. Throughout the 
return journey, he is warmed, with an inward satisfac- 
tion over the success that has attended all the details 
of his trip. Everything seems at last to be going as 
well as could be. There is now a straight road before 
him, and he will be enabled to pursue his plans and his 
work unhampered and undisturbed. What a relief ! 

He reaches New York quite late. As he is nearing 
his house, he is approached by a diminutive newsboy 
who, in a whining voice, announces that he is “ stuck, 
mister, on de evenin’ papers. Won’t “mister” buy 
one?” and he holds up a half-dozen beseechingly. 
Henson knows that these little news-sellers are sad 
rascals, and that their tales of unsold wares are fre- 
quently only so many dodges to delude the unwary ; 
but he feels at that moment too kindly a spirit within 
him to refuse anybody anything, and he forthwith 
buys out the lad’s entire stock. 

Reaching his rooms, he sits down for a moment 
before going to bed and glances through the papers 
he has purchased. Presently his eye catches a head- 
ing which instantly rivets his attention. 

A CLEW TO THE BRONK MURDER. 

The item beneath this heading is short. It reads 
as follows : 

There are still no arrests in the Bronk murder case, and the mystery 
surrounding the crime is apparently as deep as when the old money- 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


I2I 


lender was found dead in his office, beside his rifled safe, on Friday 
last. The police have so far been unable to trace the gory butcher’s 
knife with which the deed was perpetrated and which, it will be remem- 
bered, was found on the office floor, having probably been dropped by 
the murderer in his hasty flight. The detectives assigned to the case 
claim there are no new developments, but diligent investigation by a 
reporter of this paper unearthed the fact that they are in possession of a 
valuable clew. 

In the room in which the murder was committed, it appears, a button 
has been found. It is apparently a trousers button, and to it adheres a 
piece of cloth evidently belonging to the garment from which it was 
torn. This would seem to indicate beyond a doubt that a struggle took 
place between Bronk and his murderer, and that in the struggle the 
button was wrenched away. As this button -is of peculiar make, it is 
regarded as an important clew. 

Henson throws down the paper and springs to his 
feet. The clothes he wore on that day hang in a 
closet close at hand. Into this closet he plunges, 
flinging to right and left the garments in his way. At 
last, he holds in his hand the suit he wants. He 
examines it critically ; then thrusts it back. 

“Pshaw!” he exclaims, turning away, “what a 
panic-stricken fool I am.” 

With an irnpatient gesture, he stoops, picks up the 
clothes he has thrown on the floor, and puts them 
back in the closet. 

There is no button of peculiar make, with a piece of 
cloth adhering to it, missing from his clothes. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Early next day he discharges in full his indebted- 
ness to Cauman, and then hurrying to Agnes’s house 
puts the receipted bill into her hands. 


122 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ You have succeeded ? ” she exclaims, breathlessly. 

“Beyond my best hopes. Everything is now set- 
tled ; at last I have a clear road before me.” 

He recounts the details of his trip, and describes 
in a general way his friendly reception by White and 
his successes alike in the club house and at the race- 
track. 

“ You see,” she exclaims, “how justice is bound to 
triumph in the end.” 

“ You think so ? ” 

“ How can one think otherwise! Just look at our 
own case. See, for instance, how Bronk has been prov- 
identially punished for all his misdeeds, just as you 
have been rewarded for all your efforts and all your 
hard work.” 

“ What a charming little philosopher you are,” he 
replies, with a smile. “ I cannot say, though, that I 
agree with your philosophy. I think I could upset 
your theories, if I were willing to be disagreeable 
enough to do so.” 

“ Do it, if you can,” she challenges, with a laugh. 

“ Well ; do you not think that it would have been 
much more equitable if Bronk had been punished 
sooner and I had not been left to suffer so long?” 

She is silent for a moment, finding no answer to 
this proposition. 

“ Oh, you sceptic! ” she exclaims, tapping him play- 
fully on the arm ; “ I cannot answer your arguments, 
but in spite of all I believe in the eternal justice of 
things. I believe that Justice will ever triumph in 
the end.” 

“You poor misguided one!” he answers, with a 
patronizing smile. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


123 


After leaving Agnes, Henson spends the greater 
part of the day in calling upon various small creditors 
and paying off their bills. Some of these creditors 
have been particularly obnoxious' and exacting toward 
him in the past and their present obsequiousness as he 
settles their accounts is in very marked contrast to 
their former behavior. He tastes_ in full the delights of 
^his new-found freedom from embarrassment and debt. 

In the evening, determined to enjoy a full day’s 
recreation, he drops in at the Ethical Culture Club. 
A debate is in progress, the theme of which is : “ The 
Tiger Kills and Sleeps ; Man Kills and Wakes.” 

Henson listens, a smile on his lips, to the discourse 
of a young lawyer, quite an impassioned orator, on 
this thJme. The speaker draws a vivid picture of the 
disturbed moral system of a human being who has 
taken human life. This disturbed condition of the 
moral system, he goes on to describe, leads in turn to 
disturbances of the physical structure. The nerves 
become sur-excited ; the brain inflamed ; rest and, 
most vital of all, sleep, are banished. The tiger sleeps 
beside his victim: man kills, and wakes. 

This address, embellished with a good deal of rhe- 
torical finish, evidently makes a decided impression on 
many of the auditors. At its close, the orator is sur- 
rounded by admiring friends who warmly congratulate 
him upon the eloquence of his address and the convic- 
tion it has carried. 

Standing somewhat apart, Henson looks at this 
group, the same smile still on his lips. What a pity, 
he thinks to himself, that in the interests of psychol- 
ogy he cannot effectually answer all this florid elo- 
quence by submitting his own personal experience. 


124 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


As a matter of fact, never in his life has he slept 
better than since the death of Bronk ; never in his life 
has he felt more tranquil, morally and physically. 

And as he walks slowly home from the club rooms, 
he cannot help contrasting his present sense of well- 
being and ease as compared with his harassed con- 
dition of doubt, fear, humiliation and despair prior to 
the death of Bronk. To what does he owe his pres- 
ent relief? Simply to the fact that he took matters 
in his own hands, and by and through Force shaped 
the situation to his own ends. How about Remorse 
and Conscience, which simple-minded people like Mr. 
Benwell and Agnes held up to such awe ? He has 
certainly proved that they are merely so mai^ buga- 
boos, suited to frighten children, which do not exist. 
How about Circumstance, for which Halford demands 
so much respect? Has he not by force of will and 
brain and nerve and hand overpowered this same 
redoubtable Circumstance, and shaped by force the 
course of events his own way? He had been right, 
then, in all his theories. Conscience and Remorse 
precede and do not follow an action, and Force is, 
after all, the first and last word in the philosophy of 
life. 

And he walks on through the warm summer night, 
with the peaceful content of a man who has boldly 
done what was for the b^st and who has thereby suc- 
ceeded in lifting a heavy burden from his shoulders. 
With no troubles of the past harassing him and with 
bright prospects of the future before him, he experi- 
ences all the peaceful serenity of a contented and 
truly happy man. 


BOOK 11. 

CHAPTER I. 


Police Headquarters, in Mulberry Street, be- 
tween Houston and Bleecker streets, is a tall, wide 
building occupying more than half the block. Its 
walls of an immaculate white from sidewalk to roof- 
intended, doubtless, to typify the official purity within 
— are in striking contrast to the general dinginess and 
dirt of the neighborhood. For, taking it all in all, 
Police Headquarters is located in one of the most 
undesirable sections of the city. 

In the rear, in Mott Street, is a row of tenement 
houses, which in unclcanlincss and lack of hygienic 
appliances have been declared by experts to be with- 
out parallel in the metropolis — a striking reflection 
upon the Board of Health, whose offices across the 
way almost directly face them. In the side streets to 
the north, south, east, and ‘west of Police Head- 
quarters are rows upon rows of disreputable houses of 
the very lowest class, which flourish, and for years 
have flourished, despite the oft-repeated protests of 
respectable property owners in the vicinage. Ap- 
proach from which side they may, the various officials 
connected with Police Headquarters, from Commis- 
sioners and Superintendent to Detective-Sergeants 
and Doormen, cannot reach this official building with- 
out passing sundry of these dissolute dens. 


126 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


And here comes in one of those mysterious phases 
of life which are from time to time to be encountered. 

Although to the greenest of rustics wandering into 
the city it is obvious at a passing glance that these 
houses are disreputable, yet, marvellous to relate, the 
trained, sharp, experienced eyes of Police Headquar- 
ters officials have never been able to make this dis- 
covery. At Police Headquarters there seems to be a 
vague impression that these houses in which ladies 
lean out of the windows in decollete dress, and famil- 
iarly accost the passer-by, are boarding schools, 
tenanted by numbers of mature and mischief-loving 
misses. 

’Tis a passing curious world ! 

The 'offices of the Central Detective Bureau are on 
the ground floor of Police Headquarters, nearly half 
the way down the hall from the Mulberry Street 
entrance. The main offices of the Bureau are on the 
left side of the hall, and on the opposite side are the 
rooms of the Inspector. It is nine o’clock in the 
morning, just six days after the death of Bronk, and 
the inspector is seated at his desk, receiving the 
reports of his Detective-Sergeants assigned to various 
cases. The Inspector is a pleasant-faced man, still 
young-looking despite his record of over twenty years 
service on the force, and he has a well-kept brown 
mustache, a pair of frank, well-opened blue eyes, and 
a soft, easy manner. This ease of manner is, however, 
somewhat in contrast to his official disposition and 
character; for he rules his department with a rod of 
iron and, in the realm over which he holds sway, his 
methods are as despotic as those of any Russian Tsar. 
His ambition is to be known as the Vidocq of Amer- 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


127 


ica, and this ambition has been pretty fully gratified, 
for his reputation throughout the United States as a 
great detective is as widespread as that once enjoyed 
in Europe by the famous chief of French secret police, 
whose name has become a synonym for detective 
shrewdness and skill. 

He is certainly the only public official in New York 
who can boast that he sways at will the press. Nearly 
every official, including judges of the higher courts, 
hold in dread the redoubtable reporter ; not so the 
Inspector. Opposite Police Headquarters are two 
buildings in which the police news bureaus of the 
various newspapers are located. To each of these 
bureaOis two reporters are attached. Reporters work- 
ing on a common case usually share among them- 
selves, in the most fraternal manner, such information 
as they may acquire, but in the corps of reporters at 
Police Headquarters such is not the case, jealousies 
and dissensions having sprung up some years ago, and 
having continued ever since. As a result, the corps is 
split into two opposing factions, or “ combinations ” 
as they are called, each working against the other and 
striving to secure news which the other does not 
possess. 

The Inspector was quick to note this breach and 
take advantage of it. Against a united body of news- 
paper men representing all the newspapers in the city, 
neither he nor any other public official could contend ; 
but with a divided press, it was a very different story. 
By keeping constantly before the eyes of the news- 
paper men the fear of favoring in the matter of news 
one combination at the expense of the other, he has 
managed to hold the reporters almost completely at 


28 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


his mercy. He has even gone so far as to pass a set 
of rules for their guidance, one of whose provisions is 
that they shall not seek to glean news from persons 
going in or coming out of Police Headquarters, with- 
out his sanction. In other words, they are to take 
their news from him and to publish it in such way as 
he sees fit to give it. Any reporter venturing to rebel 
against this somewhat arbitrary exaction will soon find 
himself from time to time ‘^slipping up” on impor- 
tant pieces of police news and as a consequence will not 
fail before long to receive an order recalling him to his 
office. The Inspector, it may be added, is an expert 
story-builder, who would pro^bably have acquired a 
great reputation as a novelist had his lines beelf cast 
in that channel, and some of the very simplest cases 
which he gives out to the reporters are surrounded by 
a glow of detective romance of his own weaving which 
renders them interesting narratives indeed. Of 
course, the reporters have little disinclination to secur- 
ing ipteresting articles, and the said interesting arti- 
cles add not a little to the already well-advertised 
Inspector’s reputation. 

As has been said, at this particular hour in the 
morning the Inspector .is engaged in receiving reports 
from his various subordinates. Presently Detective- 
Sergeants Heidelberg and Rogers are passed by the 
door-man into the Inspector’s room. 

“Well; how stands the Bronk case?” asks the 
Chief. 

“ I think we can report progress. Inspector,” answers 
Heidelberg, who is in charge of the case. “ We have 
looked into the movements of Bronk’s clerk after 
leaving the office on the day of the murder and have 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


129 


thoroughly satisfied ourselves that he had nothing to 
do with the crime. We then started in to follow up 
the three clews in our possession — the knife, the 
young man, formerly a clerk with Bronk, seen by the 
janitress to go up to his office, and the button, with a 
piece of blue cloth attached to it, found near the 
murdered man’s chair. The two first clews are not 
very good ones. The knife has absolutely no mark 
through which we can trace it, and as for Bronk’s 
clerks, he has had quite a number of them in the past 
two years. The wages he paid were poor, his hours 
long, and altogether he seems to have been a pretty 
hard man to work for. The consequence was his 
clerks were always- leaving him, and nobody seems to 
have kept track of them enough to even remember 
their names. The janitress recognizes the man who 
passed her on the stairs, and who is known to have 
had a quarrel with Bronk in his office, as formerly in 
the old man’s employ, but more than this she can tell 
us nothing. She does not know his name, or any 
thing about him. This being the case, we have first 
turned our attention to the button, which seems to 
afford a really very promising clew.” 

“ I noticed that the discovery of this button was 
published in one of the afternoon newspapers,” re- 
marks the Inspector, coldly. “ How did the reporter 
come to get this information ? ” 

“ Not through us, Inspector,” answers Heidelberg. 
“ This reporter, as we afterward found out, had been 
following us up and making inquiries of persons 
whom we questioned. In this way he got wind of the 
button.” 

“ Is he a Headquarters reporter? ” 


130 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ No, Inspector ; a reporter specially detailed from 
the newspaper office on the case.” 

Very well, then ; but be more careful in future. 
Any information from this department to the press, I 
want to come through me. What, now, have you 
found out about this button ? ” 

The button. Inspector, is stamped with the name 
Silas Bros., New York, and has an arrow on it for a 
trade-mark. From the directory, we found that Silas 
Brothers were manufacturers of buttons in Greene 
Street. We went there and discovered a small estab- 
lishment, the proprietor of which admitted he was the 
manufacturer of the button in question, on the pecul- 
iar pattern of which he has a patent. Its specialty is 
that it has a shank which fits into the cloth, and it is 
claimed that the button cannot fall off unless the goods 
break away. He has only a comparatively limited 
number of customers, most of whom own small tailor 
shops, in or around the city. He at first objected to 
giving us a full list of these customers, but when we 
explained to him the tremendous advertisement he 
would get for his button in the newspapers should we 
succeed in tracing the murderer through it, he became 
enthusiastic and no trouble was too great for him to 
take for us. It would prove, we pointed out to him, 
that his buttons did what was claimed for them, and 
did not come loose unless the cloth itself was torn away.” 

“ I should say it would be a first-class advertisement 
for him ! ” exclaims the Inspector, admiringly. 

“ So we made him see, and he wound up by giving 
us a full list of his customers. We began down-town 
and have so far worked our way up to Ninth Street, 
visiting all the tailor shops on our list.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


I31 

“ Any results ? ” 

“ Not so far, Inspector, but we have great hopes.” 

“ Great hopes are well enough. Sergeant,” exclaims 
the Inspector, with sudden energy, “ but I want more 
— I want great results ! The clews you have in this 
case I regard as excellent ones — clews that even in the 
hands of a ward detective should not fail to lead to 
results. Shall it be recorded that, with such points in 
their possession, Central Office men failed ! No, no,” 
he continues, beating on his desk with his open hand 
to emphasize his words, “ that will never do. You 
must, I say, succeed. Spare yourselves no effort, and 
be quick with this work, for the newspapers are 
already commenting editorially on the case. Go, 
now, and when you return, do not fail to bring with 
you — the murderer ! ” 


CHAPTER II. 

In a little tailor shop in Third Avenue, between 
Eighteenth and Nineteenth streets, Julius Kratz and 
his journeyman, Fritz, are working away throughout 
the length of the hot summer afternoon. The former 
is engaged in the delicate operation of cutting a pair 
of dress trousers ; the latter in sewing the braid on a 
vest. Although he has been just eighteen years in 
this country, Julius Kratz has never succeeded in 
getting a fair grip on the English language, nor in 
laying aside certain manners and ideas peculiarly 
indigenous to the Vaterland. He believes in Herr 
Most, and while it is not in his nature to hurt a fly. 


132 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


he indorses all the bloodthirsty theories of this pro- 
fessional disturber, without in the least realizing the 
horrors of these self-same theories which he advocates. 
The only thing he is capable of injuring, is the Eng- 
lish language, which he does on every possible and 
impossible occasion. 

Still, in spite of these little eccentricities, Kratz, 
round of stomach and stolid of face, is a very worthy 
individual, and he certainly maintains a very nice 
little tailor shop. By dint of satisfying himself with 
small profits, he is enabled to compete in prices with 
the large, ready-made clothing stores, and at the same 
time he offers the additional inducement of making 
his customers’ clothes to order. His journeyman, 
Fritz, tall and lank, is his physical opposite, but in 
temperament the two are remarkably alike — slow, de- 
liberate, stolid, sleepy ; in a word, German. 

The oppressive heat of the summer afternoon seems 
to add to the congenital drowsiness of the pair, and 
for a time they bend over their work, the stillness in 
the little shop being unbroken, save by the clinking of 
Kratz’s shears and the tic-tac of Fritz’s needle as it 
makes its way through the braid. Presently Kratz 
breaks the silence : 

“Du, Fritz!” 

“Yaw.” 

“ Kaun you cool keep, you ? ” 

“Haw?” 

“ Kaun you cool keep, you ? ” 

Fritz ponders slowly and carefully over this inquiry. 
Then, after mature deliberation, he thus replies : 

“ Op I cool keep can ? ” 

“ Yaw.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. I33 

Fritz thinks it over once more. At last he decides 
to risk a decision : 

“ Naw.” 

This enlivening conversation having passed between 
the pair, they lapse into silence and once more the 
only sounds are the clink-clink of the shears, and 
the tic-tac of the needle. In course of time, however, 
the spirit again moves Kratz to speak. 

“ Du, Fritz ! ” 

“ Yaw.” 

“You know den Lumpenfeiner — heem vot married 
der pig lager pier prewer’s tochter? ” 

“ Haw ? ” 

“ You know den Lumpenfeiner — heem vot zu den 
pig lager pier prewer’s tochter married var?” 

“ Op ich den Lumpenfeiner kenne ? ” 

“Yaw.” 

“ Heem vot zu dem pig lager pier prewer’s tochter 
marriet vos ? ” 

“ Yaw.” 

“ Naw, kenne nicht ! ” 

“ Naw ? ” 

“ Naw.” 

How long this conversation might have kept up is 
difficult to surmise, but at this point it is interrupted 
by the entrance of two strangers who, without that 
indecision peculiar to the average customer, advance 
boldly into the centre of the little shop. 

“Vot kan I do for you, gentlemen?” inquires 
Kratz, affably, coming slowly forward, shears in hand. 

The strangers do not at once reply. The taller of 
the two slips his thumb and forefinger into his vest 
pocket and draws forth a small metallic box. Kratz 


i54 


PHILIP HENSON, M. 1). 


watches him with dull astonishment as he opens the 
lid. Inside the box, delicately reposing like some 
piece of jewelry on a bed of cotton wool, is a trousers 
button, to which adheres a little strip of blue cloth. 

Without allowing it to pass out of his possession, 
the stranger holds the box under Kratz’s astonished 
eyes. 

“You use this button in your store ?’* he inquires, 
curtly. 

“ Yaw,” answers Kratz, deprecatingly, and vaguely 
anticipating he is about to be blamed ; “ dey vos a 
goot button.” 

“Yes, it is a good button; a very good button,” 
replies the stranger, with meaning. “ Now, tell me. 
You see this bit of blue cloth clinging to the button. 
Have you ever had any cloth like that in your shop?” 

Kratz stares at the speaker; this long question in 
English is a little too much to be taken in all in a 
minute. He calls Fritz to his assistance. 

Slowly and deliberately the journeyman comes to 
the rescue. To him the stranger repeats the question 
already addressed to Kratz. 

Fritz stares blankly at the button. 

“ Op ich den button kenne ? ” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

“ Heem vot in der pox lies?” 

“ Great Scott ! ” 

Both the strangers are evidently on the point of los- 
ing all patience, when at this point an idea, which for 
some moments past has been slowly incubating in 
Kratz’s brain, takes shape in words. 

“ You vant a button like dot?” he inquires. 

“ No, no.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


135 


“ Ach, den, you vant a suit of glothes like dot,” he 
continues, confident that he has at last caught the 
idea. “ Sorry, but vee haf heem no more.” 

“ No more, eh ? Did you have cloth like this at any 
time ? ” 

“ Yaw.” 

“ Look at it well. Was it exactly the same cloth as 
this ? ” 

Kratz examines the cloth critically. 

“Yoost exagtly der same. I haf a schmall biece 
of heem onst, a leedle vile ago. I recognize heem 
veil.” 

“Ah!” 

The manner of both the strangers has suddenly 
become eager. 

‘‘You vant a suit like dot? ” again asks Kratz. 

“ No, that is not quite what we are after,” is the 
answer. 

“ Vot, den, you vant, Gott in Himmel 1 ” cries 
Kratz, thoroughly bewildered. 

“Just this, my good fellow,” replies Kratz’s ques- 
tioner. “ I am Detective-Sergeant Heidelberg, of the 
Central Office, and I have come to find out just 
exactly what goods you have turned out from this 
material.” 

At the meetings of the Socialist Verein, away over 
on the East side, Kratz is wont to discuss with great 
nonchalance the blowing up of police stations and the 
wholesale slaughter of “those banditti of Capital, the 
police.” Now, however, that he finds himself in the 
actual presence of a living, breathing detective, all his 
valor oozes out at his finger tips and he feels himself 
thoroughly awe stricken. This tall man, with the 


136 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

sharp eyes and fierce mustache, is certainly very 
imposing. 

“You vont to know vot goots I make von dot biece 
gloth I haf vonst a time ? he repeats. 

“ That’s it.” 

Kratz takes the little box containing the button 
from the detective’s somewhat unwilling hand and 
going over to a side table opens a large book. This 
book is filled with coarse pages on which are pinned 
little squares of cloth, opposite which are words and 
figures in German handwriting. He turns over the 
pages until at last he comes to one at the bottom of 
which is affixed a small strip of blue cloth. Taking 
the button out of the box, he puts the fragment of 
cloth adhering to it side by side with the piece of 
goods in the book and carefully compares the two. 
Presently he looks up. 

“ I VOS right,” he says ; “ it vos der same goots.” 

The detectives exchange glances, but say nothing. 

Laboriously Kratz goes on to explain that some 
time ago he bought this goods, as a remnant, from the 
salesman of a foreign house. There was only a small 
piece of it, and he had not been able to get any more. 
He wishes he had, he goes on to declare, for it was 
good cloth ; a little light in weight, but excellent 
wear ! 

The detectives quickly cut him short in his wordy 
laudation of the goods, and bring him sharply to the 
point. What garments has he made out of this stuff, 
they want to know. 

Ach, only three pairs of trousers ; there was, 
helas ! only enough of the goods for that— such fine 
goods, too ! 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

And for whom were these three pairs of trousers 
made ? the inquisitors next want to know. 

Kratz turns to his books to refresh his memory. 
Oh, yes ; he has it now ; he remembers well. One 
pair was made for Mr. Hammerstein — ach, the ar^ner 
Herr Hammerstein ! who keeps the grocery up the 
street and who lost his wife last week ; the other for 
Mr. Hopper, the drug store man across the way, a few 
doors down, and the third pair for a young gentleman 
living in East Fifteenth Street, a new customer — Mr. 
William Denton. • 

Detective Heitfelberg carefully takes notes of these 
names and addresses. 

“ What does this William Denton, this young man 
who is a new customer of yours look like ? ” he 
inquires. 

“ Donnerwetter ! but you yoost ought to see him. 
Quite a fine-looking young gentlemans.” 

Tall or short ? ” 

“Tall.” 

“ Dark or light ? ” 

“ A plond.” 

“ Clean shave or a beard ? ” 

“No peard ; he has a long plond mustache, like der 
gavalry officers in Chermany.” 

• “About twenty-five, or twenty-six ? ” 

“ Yoost about.” 

Detective Heidelberg looks pleased. 

“ That will do,” he says ; “ that’s all we want to 
know for the present.” 

With a stern and decidedly ominous warning to the 
tailor and his journeyman not to speak to anybody of 
their visit, the detectives take their departure. 


138 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

Once well outside the door, Heidelberg turns to his 
companion. 

“ Tall, a light complexion, blond mustache, no 
beard, about twenty-five or twenty-six, a nice looking 
young man — it strikes me, Rogers, we have heard that 
description before, and that it corresponds very neatly 
with that given by the janitress of the young man who 
passed her on the stairs that afternoon ; the nice 
young man, at one time Bronk's clerk, who is known 
to have been with him alone and to have had a quar- 
rel with him just about the timte the murder must 
'have been committed.” 

“That’s precisely what it does,” replies Rogers. 

“ Well, partner ; suppose we go and look up a few 
facts about this same nice young man. Suppose we 
find out if there is not a button and a little piece of 
cloth missing from his clothes.” 


CHAPTER III. 

“I ALMOST wish I had stayed out West ! ” declares 
Will Denton, dropping with moody mien into an easy 
chair and flicking wickedly with his palm leaf fan at 
an obstinate fly which persists in buzzing around his 
face. 

Hot as the afternoon has been, the evening equals it 
in oppressiveness, and Agnes and Will seated with 
their mother in the little front parlor, the windows 
thrown high up, find it difificult to acquire any degree 
of comfort. The heat, as it is apt to do with some 
people, seems to exert a depressing effect upon Will, 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


39 


and at the present moment he is taking a gloomy view 
of things in general and lamenting the ill-success of 
his efforts to secure desirable employment since his 
return from the West. A tall young man, shapely 
and well-made, very blue eyed and light of hair. Will 
Denton bears a decided likeness to his sister, only the 
eyes and face are less positive in their expression, and 
the general contour of the features less clearly defined 
and somewhat weaker. Whatever physical resem- 
blance there may be between them, however, in dis- 
position they differ materially, Agnes having the 
buoyant, hopeful, energetic character inherited from 
the father, while Will, vacillating, easy-going, and 
slightly indolent, more closely reflects the maternal 
side of the house. 

“ I don’t see what I have gained by coming back. 
I might just as well have stayed out West.” 

“ Don’t say that, my boy, for in New York you are 
at least with us,” answers Mrs. Denton, the maternal 
heart all aglow with sympathy. 

“Well, but what am I going to do here, mother? 
There seems to be five hundred applicants to every- 
thing at all worth having. To-day I thought I had 
secured a pretty good position, but at the last moment 
some fellow who happened to have a little influence 
slipped in ahead of me. That’s the way it goes. If 
we, too, only had a little influence, it would be very 
different. But we haven’t. Just our luck.” 

Just my luck! This is Will’s cry on every occasion. 
Although not in any sense a gamester, never having 
indulged in gambling in any form, he is a steadfast 
believer in luck, and thoroughly imbued with the idea 
that this quality which he designates as “luck” is 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


146 

obstinately against him. It is a favorite occupation 
with him, in hours of despondency, to think over the 
course of events and pity himself for his ill-fortune. 
Why had his father died before he was launched in 
life — established in some remunerative profession or 
business which would enable him to support himself 
and his mother and sister in comfort and plenty? 
Why had they been left so wretchedly off ? Why, as 
might readily have happened “ if he had any luck," 
had he not “fallen into” some decent berth which 
paid fairly well and offered some prospects for the 
future. Why all this? Simply because luck was 
dead against him, and always had been, as far as he 
could remember. Moralizing thus. Will Denton is 
wont to think that life has used him very hard, and he 
is filled with self-pity. 

“Yes, I have such frightful bad luck," he continues. 
“ I really don’t know what I am going to do. 1 don^t 
see what’s before me." 

“ Why always look at the worst side. Will?" rejoins 
Agnes. “You are in bad spirits for the moment, and 
things are not nearly so bad as they appear to you 
just now. To-morrow, at any minute, everything may 
turn for the better. Come, cheer up. Are you not 
happy with mamma and me? You have your home, 
those who love you around you — surely many are very 
much worse off ! ” 

“Yes, that’s true; there is something in that," con- 
cedes Will. 

“ Why then so despondent ? " 

“Id like to know what else a fellow could be with 
no money coming in." 

“Money! Well, there is no reason why that 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


141 


should worry you so much. You have,” she con- 
tinues, laughing, “ no prospect of an unpaid hotel bill 
before you, Fm sure, and as for money for personal 
use, I have some coming in from various quarters. 
Suppose you consider me your banker, and draw on 
me.” 

“ Oh, you always take such a sanguine view of 
things ! ” cries Will, already brightening a little under 
the influence of his sister’s cheery words. 

“And I’m sure that’s the nicest and best view to 
take,” retorts Agnes. “ Come, Will ;*no more frowns 
or gloomy looks. Suppose I play something for you.” 

“ A good idea. Do, there’s a good girl.” 

She goes to the piano. Agnes is not the kind of a 
girl to bore a man in the blues with symphonies and 
sonatas for which she knows he has no taste. She 
plays a number of light, sparkling dance selections, 
which set the pendants on the chandeliers a-jingling 
and soon bring an expression of brightness and content 
to Will’s face. The merry music is -at its height, 
when suddenly it is sharply broken in upon by a ring 
of the outer door bell. 

“Who can the visitor be so late as this?” Will 
peers through one of the slats of the Venetian blinds 
in the attempt to discover. 

“ Some stranger,” he remarks, turning around. 

Agnes goes to the door. Upon the stoop she finds 
a tall man, who bows to her with the utmost defer- 
ence. 

“ Is Mr. Denton in ?” he asks. 

Agnes replies in the affirmative and invites the 
caller to step into the dining-room. 

“Thank you, no,” he replies, with decision, and 


142 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


looking toward the stairs. “ I only want to see him 
for a moment ; I will wait for him here.” 

Somewhat surprised, Agnes turns into the parlor to 
apprise her brother. Will at once steps out to meet 
the visitor. 

“ I would like to see you privately for a moment,” 
says the latter, in a rather low voice and with a glance 
toward the parlor door. 

Will leads the way into the dining-room, which the 
caller now makes no objection to entering. 

“Well, sir?” says Will, questioningly, as soon as 
the door is closed upon them. 

The stranger comes to the point at once. 

“ You are Mr. William Denton? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I am Detective-Sergeant Heidelberg, of the Cen- 
tral Office. The Inspector wants to see you.” 

“ The Inspector wants to see me ! ” exclaims Will, 
surprised. “ What about ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, about — important business.” 

“Indeed?” continues Will, with growing astonish- 
ment. “ When am I to call upon him ? ” 

“Well,” answers the Detective-Sergeant, dryly, 
“all things considered, I think you had better come 
and see him right now.” 

There is a twinkle in the Detective-Sergeant’s eye ; 
he seems to be a man possessed of a keen appreciation 
for the humorous. 

“ A cool beggar ; evidently a pretty hard nut to 
crack ! ” he mutters under his breath. 

‘‘All right,” rejoins Will blithely; “I can’t very 
well go just this minute, but I will be along in the 
course of half an hour.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


143 


The humorous twinkle in the Detective-Sergeant’s 
eye emphasizes itself. 

“ Excuse me,” he says, with great politeness, “but 
the Inspector is so anxious to see you that I’m afraid 
you will find it necessary to come right now.” 

Will, somewhat startled by this persistence, yields 
and without further opposition leads the w2y into the 
hall. He takes his hat and stick from the rack, opens 
the parlor door a few inches and looking in upon his 
mother and sister exclaims : — “ Don’t go to bed before 
I return, will you ? I’ll be back in about half an hour.” 

Poor Will ! 

Side by side with the Detective-Sergeant, he passes 
down the steps into the street and they walk along 
until they reach the avenue. There the Detective- 
Sergeant comes to a stop. 

“Do you care to take a hack?” he inquires. “It 
will cost you a dollar.” 

“ No,” answers Will, again astonished. “ What’s the 
use ? Why not take a car ? ’ 

“ No, thank you ; no cars,” is the answer. 

“ Well ; let’s walk down. It’s not far is it ? ” 

“ No. Walking is good exercise, anyway; although 
I’ve done a good deal of it to-day. It’s agreed, then, 
we walk ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

The Detective-Sergeant turns and looks along the 
street. Following his glance, Will sees two men, 
whom he has not before observed, standing opposite 
his house. The Detective-Sergeant raises his hat 
carelessly and instantly one of the men comes toward 
them, while the other. Will observes, crosses the 
street and walks up the steps of his house. 


144 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


In a few seconds the man who has started toward 
them comes up to them. Detective-Sergeant Heidel- 
berg greets him with a nod. 

“ Well, Rogers,” he remarks, with a smile, “ our 
friend here has decided to walk down and I thought 
you might like to come along.” 

“Yes, certainly,” replies Rogers, with an answering 
smile. 

Like a flash, the meaning of all these manoeuvres 
comes into Will’s mind. This raising of the hat was 
a signal and he is a prisoner. This second detective is 
accompanying them as a precaution — a precaution 
against any attempt at escape on the way. 

This discovery for the moment overwhelms him. 
What does it all mean? What is he accused of? 

All attempts at questioning the detectives are evi- 
dently useless. Quickly realizing this, he decides not 
to engage in the effort, and contrives to keep up a 
desultory conversation with them on trivial topics 
until Police Headquarters is reached. Arrived there, 
he is led into the building by the Mott Street entrance 
and is taken into a little inner room attached to the 
detective offices, where he is left to wait. 

Here he remains for nearly an hour and a half, until 
at last Heidelberg enters and directs him to follow 
him. He leads the way through the offices and 
crosses the main hall to the rooms of the Inspector. 
There, he is shown into an inner apartment, watched 
over by a door-man, and Heidelberg and he take seats 
side by side. There is another wait of nearly five 
minutes ; then the light tinkle of a bell is heard 
from the adjoining room. The door-man answers this 
ring and, reappearing in an instant, motions Will to 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 145 

enter. Heidelberg steps with him to the door and 
passes him over to the door-man. The door-man, 
taking him lightly by the arm, leads him forward into 
the room, until he stands immediately in front of a 
spacious table at which sits the Inspector. Then the 
subordinate retires, and Will finds himself alone in the 
presence of the widely famed detective chief. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Inspector is writing and for a moment does not 
stop in his work. Suddenly, however, he raises his 
eyes and looks sternly and sharply at Will. Slowly 
the Inspector’s glance travels over him, as if bent on 
noting every little detail in his dress and personal 
appearance. Will looks back at the Inspector with as 
steady a glance as he can command, but this sharp 
scrutiny undoubtedly has the effect of making him 
nervous and ill at ease. This is precisely what the In- 
spector aims it shall do. Ill at ease and nervous, a 
prisoner’s self-possession soon goes, and his self-posses- 
sion lost, half the battle of cross-examination is won. 
The Inspector is a great master of these little tricks 
of the trade. 

This scrutiny has lasted long enough to be posi- 
tively embarrassing and painful when, still without 
taking his eyes from Will, the Inspector slips his hand 
into a drawer at his side and takes from this receptacle 
something which he throws upon the table. This 
something falls with a flash and a ring and, looking 
down, Will perceives a large knife, a murderous look- 


146 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

ing weapon, with a long, straight blade and rough, 
strong handle. 

The Inspector’s voice rings out sharp and clear. 

“ When did you lose this knife?” 

Surprised, Will hastily answers that he has never 
lost it ; it has never belonged to him. 

The Inspector makes no comment on this reply, but 
touches his hand bell. When the door-man appears, 
he scratches a line upon a piece of paper and hands it 
to the attendant. The latter leaves the room, and 
there is a moment’s delay. Then Detective-Sergeant 
Heidelberg appears, carrying a good-sized bundle done 
up in what appears to be a large sheet of brown hol- 
land. He lays this bundle on the table, and the 
Inspector motions him to open it. This having been 
done, Will perceives several pieces of clothing lying 
together. Quick as a flash, the Inspector seizes a 
piece of this clothing in either hand and thrusts them 
toward Will. 

“ Do you identify these ? ” 

Horrible, indeed, are these objects which the In- 
spector holds in his hands and has almost thrust into 
Will’s face. They are a once white collar, of somewhat 
peculiar shape, and an old coat of some gray material, 
both of which are clotted and matted and smeared in 
a manner fearful to behold. Over them, blood must 
have poured in streams. On the table, in a little heap, 
lie a white shirt, a waistcoat, and a pair of trousers, 
all marked with the same ghastly disfigurements. 

Shocked and startled to a far greater degree than 
he would have thought possible. Will involuntarily 
shrinks back. The unexpected sight of these uncanny 
objects produces upon him a sudden feeling of nausea. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


147 


All this is in accordance with the Inspector’s tac- 
tics. He has found by practical experience that noth- 
ing disconcerts and upsets the average criminal, who 
has taken life, like sudden and unexpected confront- 
ing with the unpleasant physical aspects of his crime. 
By following out this line of action, he has at various 
times in the past succeeded in obtaining wonderful 
results. It is no uncommon practice with him to have 
a prisoner suspected of murder awakened in the mid- 
dle of the night and taken from his cell to be brought 
face to face with some ghastly relic of his crime, in 
the hope that under the influence of the sudden ner- 
vous shock he may utter words which will serve as 
valuable clews leading to his conviction, or that of 
possible confederates. In his methods, the Inspector 
is nothing if not theatric. 

“ Do you identify these?” he repeats. 

I do not,” answers Will, still a good deal per- 
turbed, and who in these crumpled and besmeared 
objects before him recognizes nothing that he has ever 
seen before. 

“ Do you know how this mark came here ? ” 

The Inspector drops the coat upon the table and 
picks up one of the tails, upon the inside of which is 
a dark streak, as if some blood-stained object, a finger 
probably, has been wiped there. 

At last. Will begins to realize the drift of these 
questions. It is evident that he is suspected of hav- 
ing something to do with these clothes, and with the 
blood that is upon them. 

“ No,” he answers, with spirit, “ I do not know. 
How should I ? ” 

“You ought to, then,” retorts the Inspector. 


148 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Were you not in the employ of Mr. Bronk for sev- 
eral months ? ” 

“And are those Mr. Bronk’s clothes?” exclaims 
Will, startled. 

“Yes,” answers the Inspector, very deliberately, 
“those are Mr. Bronk^s clothes. Does it not strike 
you as strange that you declare yourself unable to 
identify these clothes of your employer ? He does not 
seem to have had such a large wardrobe, and you must 
have seen them many times.” 

“ I do not recognize them in their present con- 
dition,” answers Will, “although, now that you tell 
me they are his, I think I have seen him wear a coat 
that looked like this one.” 

“Why did you leave the employ of Bronk?” 

“He was a hard man to work for. He was very 
difficult to get along with.” 

“ How so ? ” 

“He had a bad temper, and was at times quite 
abusive and violent.” 

“ Violent, eh ? Did you ever come to blows? ” 

“ Oh, no ; it never went as far as that. He was too 
old a man, anyway, for me to think of striking him.” 

“Where were you next employed after leaving 
him?” 

“ With Patterson Brothers, stock brokers, in Ex- 
change Place.” 

“ Why did you leave there ? ” 

“ I was not sufficiently experienced in that branch 
of business to properly undertake the duties re- 
quired.” 

“ Were you not accused of a defalcation ? ” 

“ No, sir,” answers Will, with indignation. “ Owing 


PHILIP HENSON, Ivl. D. 


149 


to my inexperience in that business, there was a 
shortage in my accounts, that was all. This shortage 
was afterward made good.” 

“ That’s how you put it, eh ! Well, what did you 
do next ? ” 

I went West.” 

What did you do there ? ” 

“ I was employed first with an express company and 
afterward in a commission merchant’s office.” 

“ Why did you leave the express company ? ” 

“ Because of a reduction of the staff to lessen ex- 
penses.” 

“Why did you leave the commission merchant?” 

“ Because of the failure in business of my em- 
ployer.” 

“ Were you not engaged in the butcher business out 
West?” 

“ Never.” 

“You mean to say that you were never engaged in 
the butcher business, or employed in the office of a 
slaughtering establishment ? ” 

“ Never.” 

“You are quite sure?” 

“ Quite sure.” 

The Inspector lays stress upon these questions in 
the hope of gaining some clew as to the knife. He 
means later on to have Will’s movements in the West 
very thoroughly followed up. 

“ What did you do after leaving the commission 
merchant ? ” he continues. 

“ I was unable to find another suitable position, so I 
returned here, chiefly at my mother’s solicitation.” 

“ How long have you been back ? ” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


150 

“A little over a month.” 

‘‘Have you seen your old employer, Bronk, since 
your return ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“When?” 

“ I called upon him last Friday.” 

“ The day of the murder ! ” 

“Yes, it was the day of the murder.” 

“ What did you go there for ? ” 

“Since my return to New York I had not found 
anything to do and I called on Mr. Bronk to ask him 
if he had not any accounts he wanted posted up, or 
any work I could do for him evenings. I knew that 
the man he employed had always too much to do, and 
that the accounts were therefore generally behind- 
hand. I did not care to enter his employ again, but I 
was willing to earn a little money from him in this 
way.” 

“ What time did you make this call?” 

‘ It was late in the afternoon ; I do not know the 
exact time.” 

“Was it not after five o’clock?” 

“ I do not know. My impression is that it was 
about five o’clock. I did not take any special note of 
the time ; there was no reason why I should do so.” 

“ You found Mr. Bronk alone in his office?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What happened then ? ” 

“ I explained to him why I had called. He said 
that he had no outside work to give, but he wanted 
me to come back to him again as his clerk, as he 
thought the man who was with him was looking out 
for another place. I refused to do this, and he became 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


151 

quite angry. He accused me of not wanting a posi- 
tion and declared that I had always sought to shirk 
work. I had done so, he said, while in his employ. 
In support of this assertion, he accused me of having 
put certain old schedules out of the way rather than 
take the trouble of indexing them and disposing of 
them properly. As he went on in this manner, he 
grew excited and talked in a very loud voice. I, too, 
was angry and answered him sharply. I denied what 
he said about the schedules and told him where I had 
filed them away in one of the pigeon-holes. He told 
me to get them, if I could, and I did so. He then 
cooled down a bit and when I left him, he told me to 
come to him whenever I was willing to take the place 
he offered.’' 

“So that is your account of the interview, is it? 
You say positively that there was no blow, no strug- 
gle, no violence whatever?” 

“ Most positively, no.” 

Again the Inspector’s hand goes into a drawer at 
his side. This time it brings forth a small metallic 
box, which the Inspector opens before Will. Inside 
is a button and to it adheres a little piece of cloth. 

“ Can you identify this button ? ” asks the Inspector. 

Will, flustered and excited by all these questions, 
stares hard at the button. 

“ I cannot say that I recognize it,” he answers, with 
a vague feeling that it is better not to commit himself 
to any statement which may be twisted against him ; 
“ no, I cannot say that I do, for it seems to me that 
all trousers buttons look pretty much alike. I will 
admit, though, if that is what you are after, that I 
did lose a button from my trousers on the day I 


152 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

called upon Mr. Bronk. Perhaps this may be the one, 
for all I know.” 

“We will make sure whether it is or not,” rejoins 
the Inspector. “ The point is of some importance, it 
strikes me, both to you and to me,” he adds, dryly. 

He makes a motion to Heidelberg, who at once 
steps over to a large cabinet at the other end of the 
apartment and in an instant returns, to Will’s great 
astonishment, with a suit of the latter’s clothes on his 
arm. His surprise is short, however, for quickly there 
comes to him the recollection of the man he saw 
going up the steps of his house, as he stood on the 
corner between Heidelberg and Rogers. This man 
was undoubtedly another detective, with a search 
warrant. 

“ Do you identify this suit of clothes } ” asks the 
Inspector, with a light accent of sarcasm. 

“ Yes, I do.” 

“ It is yours? ” 

“Yes; it is a suit I had made for me immediately 
after my return from the West.” 

“ Now that we have at last got you to identify 
something,” continues the Inspector, still sarcastic, 
“ perhaps you will be good enough to compare the 
button in this box with the buttons on these trousers.” 

The Inspector holds the button in the box beside 
one of the buttons on the trousers. 

Will looks at the two buttons as carefully as his 
excitement will allow. He begins to realize the full 
importance of these coincidences which have cropped 
up against him and to feel* that things are assuming a 
peculiarly ugly shape. After a long look, he makes 
answer. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


153 


“Yes,” he admits, “ these buttons do look alike.” 

“ I should say so,’' rejoins the Inspector. “ These 
two don’t, though.” 

With a quick twist, he turns the trousers around to 
the other side and points to a button, different from 
the rest, which has been sewed on over a spot where 
there is a slight tear in the cloth. He holds the but- 
ton taken from the box beside the button which does 
not match with the others, and looks up with an ex- 
pression of triumph at Will. 

“ No,” answers Will, quickly, “ the two do not 
match ; for, as I have told you, I lost a button from 
these trousers and this is one that I sewed on in its 
place.” 

“ How did you come to lose this button?” ques- 
tions the Inspector. “ It is a patent button and can- 
not be pulled off except with considerable force. In 
fact, as you see, the cloth has to give way first.” 

“ I think I can explain,” answers Will, with a feel- 
ing of desperation, as he realizes the significance of 
these inferences which the Inspector is building up 
against him, “ it is really all simple enough. As I 
told you, while I was at Mr. Bronk’s office that 
day, I had occasion to go to a pigeon hole to get the 
schedules which he declared were missing. This 
pigeon hole was high up— so high up that I could 
not conveniently reach it. A chair was close at hand 
and I took it to stand upon. Just as I was getting 
the schedules, the chair overbalanced and I was 
very nearly thrown down. In the wrench I received 
then, I very likely lost the button, for some time 
afterward I found that a button was off on one side 
of my trousers.” 


154 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ If this was the case, why did you not notify the 
police that this button was yours, when you learned 
that they had found it and regarded it as a clew to 
the murderer ? ” 

“ I did not know they had any such button — that 
they were following up any such clew.” 

“ It was published in the newspapers.” 

“ I did not see it.” 

“ Why did you not give information to the police 
that you visited Bronk’s office about the time of the 
murder ? ” 

‘‘ Why should I ? I had no information of any 
value to give.” 

“ What were your movements after leaving that 
office?” 

“I walked along Twenty-third Street to Fifth 
Avenue, and down Fifth Avenue as far as Fourteenth 
Street. There I was overtaken by a heavy shower 
and I had to take shelter under an awning. After 
the shower was over, I went straight home.” 

“ Did you meet any one you knew ? ** 

“ No one.” 

“Who let you into your house?” 

“ I let myself in with my latch-key. ' 

“ Did anybody at the house meet you in the hall, 
or on the stairs, immediately after entering?” 

“ No ; my sister was out and my mother was attend- 
ing to the dinner. I went straight to my room to 
change my boots, which were wet and muddy after the 
rain.” 

“You say you yourself sewed this button on your 
trousers ? ” 

“ Yes.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 155 

Are you in the habit of sewing on your own but- 
tons ? ” 

“ I sometimes do/’ 

“You don’t go to your mother, or your sister, for 
work like that ? ” • 

“ It just so happened that I did not in this case.” 

“ And why not in this case ? ” 

‘ I cannot give any special reason. Neither my 
mother nor my sister happened to be at hand, and 
out West I learned to do little things like that for 
myself.” 

“You told no one of the loss of this button?” 

“ No one. I attached no importance to such a 
trifle.” 

“ And the visit to the office on the day of the crime 
— did you also not mention that to any one?” 

“ I did not speak about it to anybody.” 

“Why not? Why this secresy? Was it not the 
most natural thing in the world that you should tell 
everybody you talked with that you had seen the 
deceased on the day he was murdered? You must 
have heard people talking about the case all around 
you.” 

“ I had a reason for not speaking of this visit,” 
answers Will, with a slight tremor in his voice. “ My 
mother and sister disapproved of Mr. Bronk, and 
would not have liked to learn that I had had any 
further dealings with him. It was for this reason that 
I did not speak of my visit there.” 

“ This is the only explanation you have to give?” 

“Yes ; the explanation I have given you is the true 
one. It is the only one I have to give,” replies Will, 
firmly. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


156 

‘I^That will do,’’ exclaims the Inspector, abruptly. 
“ I have nothing further to ask you for the present. 
Is there any statement you care to make to me ? ” 

“ I know of nothing to sa^ beyond what I have 
already told you.” 

“ Very well.” 

He turns to Heidelberg, with a curt nod: 

“ Take the prisoner down.” 

One moment, sir ; ” exclaims Will, desperately. 
“ If I am a prisoner, will you not at least tell me the 
cause of my arrest — with what I am charged ? ” 

“ I arrest you on suspicion.” 

“ On suspicion of what, sir?” 

“ Of the murder, on the thirtieth ultimo, of one 
Wilson R. Bronk.” 


CHAPTER V. 

Seated before a large and much littered table, in 
the full glare of a big drop-light, Henson is deep in 
his work. For two hours or more he has worked 
away, with that intense concentration peculiar to him, 
and still there is no sign of his labor drawing to a 
close. Suddenly, however, it is interrupted and he is 
brought back to a sense of outer things by the ringing 
of his night-bell. Rising, he goes to the door and 
opens it. Before him, to his astonishment, stands 
Agnes. 

Instantly the thought flashes through his mind that 
Mrs. Denton is ill ; that she has been seized with 
some sudden attack. Even in the dim light of the 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 1 57 

doorway, he can see from Agnes’s manner that some- 
thing is wrong. 

“ What is the matter? ” he asks, quickly. • 

“ I want to speak to you — something very serious — 
I cannot tell you here ! ” 

Henson closes the door and leads the way inside. 
“What is the matter?” he again asks, as soon as 
the door of his consulting room has closed upon them. 
“ Will has been arrested.” 

“ Your brother arrested — for what? ” 

“ I can hardly tell ; it seems to have something to do 
with the murder of Bronk.” 

“ With the murder of Bronk ! ” 

He repeats the words vaguely, mechanically. He 
seems unable to grasp their full import. For the 
moment, he is utterly bewildered. 

“ What has Will to do with it ! ” he continues, in 
the same dull tone. 

Agnes tells him all she knows. A stranger called 
that evening and asked to see Will. After a few min- 
utes’ conversation, they had left the house together, 
Will looking in at the parlor door for a moment as he 
was going out to ask them not to go to bed, as he 
would be back in half an hour. Hardly was he gone, 
when a second stranger rang the door bell. This 
man announced himself to be a police officer, with a 
warrant authorizing him to search the house. He had 
made a thorough search of Will’s room, and had gone 
away with some of Will’s clothes. She had waited, 
filled with anxiety, for quite a long time and at last a 
note had been brought to her by a messenger from 
Will, saying that, owing to a strange mistake, he had 
been arrested and was detained for the time being 


158 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


at Police Headquarters. He asked, poor boy, that 
the news be made light of to their mother, so as to 
spare her all possible alarm. Of course, she had at 
once hastened to Police Headquarters, where, after 
much difficulty, she had secured an interview with 
Will, but only in the j)resence of a police officer. 
Will had then told her that he had visited Bronk’s 
office on the day of the murder ; that he had hap- 
pened to lose a button there ; that this button had 
been traced to him ; that the police theory evidently 
was that he had lost it in a struggle with the murdered 
man, and that he was consequently held on suspicion 
of being implicated in the crime. 

Absurd !” comments Henson. “ The theory of a 
struggle is nonsense. From the position of the body 
it is evident there was no struggle ; the man was taken 
completely by surprise.” 

Agnes listens eagerly, dwelling upon his every word. 

“ Poor fellow ! ” he continues, in a low and very 
gentle voice, and more as if speaking to himself than 
to her, *‘his mother is so fond of him. And he, he 
was always very good to her, I suppose ? ” 

“As good as could be,” answers Agnes. “A little 
weak and easily discouraged at times, but always very 
kind, very full of little attentions, very good.” 

“ This mistake is bad,” he continues, in the same 
low voice, “ very bad.” 

'‘Yes,” exclaims Agnes, with excitement; “but 
you are not going to let him suffer long under it, 
are you ? You will save him — ” 

“ Save him— I— I ! ” 

The words escape him with a cry, which he cannot 
keep back. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


159 


What can I do? ” he stammers. 

“ Go to the police and tell them all you know.'' 

He peers into her face, as if to discover some hidden 
meaning there ; but this face upturned to him is so 
full of sweetness and pleading as to leave no place for 
guile. Her next words restore to him his self-posses- 
sion. 

“To whom shall we turn, Philip, in our hour of 
need, if not to you — you, whom we look up to as our 
only source of wisdom and strength ? As for me, you 
know that I look to you as my counsel, my direction, 
my God, my all ! To you, and to you alone, do I 
look for aid. You will go and see the Inspector, 
won’t you ? ” 

“ You want me to go and see the Inspector — me ! ” 

“ Who can prove Will’s innocence so well as you ? ” 

Again he glances at her sharply. She is certainly 
speaking in the utmost good faith. 

“What shall I say to the Inspector?” he asks. 
“ Upon what pretext can I go to him ? ” 

“What could be more natural than you should go 
to him,” she replies, eagerly. “You were the physi- 
cian first called in. You can explain to him, as you 
have already made so plain to me, about the position 
of the body and the evidences that there was no 
struggle. Once the absence of any struggle is made 
apparent, this whole police theory about the button 
falls to the ground and Will is as good as cleared'.” 

He is silent for a moment, evidently thinking it all 
over. At last he speaks : 

“ Do ycy think this move would be a wise one ? ” he 
asks, slowly. “ Do you not think that, by putting 
myself forward as actually advocating his cause, it 


l6o PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

will destroy the weight of my testimony as a disinter- 
ested witness ? ” 

Agnes looks at him, aghast. 

“But just think of what will happen if we wait 
until you are called upon to testify,” she exclaims, 
with emotion. “Just think during all that time of 
the sufferings of Will, of mamma, of me ! How will 
Will ever bear up under it? You don’t know him as 
I do. He is not very strong under adversity— just 
like mamma, in that respect. Oh, what ever will they 
do ! ” 

Henson looks at her in her despair, and he quickly 
makes up his mind. 

“ I will go to the Inspector to-morrow,” he says. 

“ Oh, dear Philip, how good you are ! ” she exclaims, 
tenderly. “ I am happy now, for I feel sure you will 
succeed in rescuing that poor boy. He will owe to 
you his liberty, just as mamma owes to you her life. 
Oh, how grateful we all ought to be to you.” 

He calms her agitation with a few kind, reassuring 
words, and as he sees the old, bright, confident smile 
come back to her eyes, and the warm color to her 
cheeks, he does not regret, nor would he recall, the 
promise he has made her. When, however, he has 
seen her home and the door of her house has closed 
upon her, and he walks back alone through the night, 
the question gradually presents itself to him as to 
whether he is not about to commit a grave impru- 
dence. Is it not sheer folly, when he is well in the 
background and no one is thinking of him, to thrust 
himself forward and draw general attention to himself 
in connection with this case? If matters were only 
allowed to quietly run their course, everything would 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


6l 


doubtless come out all right. There cannot, after all, 
be much of a case against this young man and in due 
time the authorities will, in ail probability, discover 
this for themselves and set him free. The clamor in 
the newspapers for action on the part of the police 
will, in the meantime, have died out ; the case itself 
have become dulled in public memory, and there will 
be the end of it. Now, he is asked to thrust himself 
forward into most undesirable prominence in the 
affair, and it is impossible to conjecture what unpleas- 
ant complications may in consequence ensue. 

For a moment he thinks that, after all, he will not 
go to the Inspector. Then, there comes to him the 
picture of Agnes, broken-voiced and pleading, and he 
determines that his promise to her shall be kept, cost 
what it may. 

Accordingly, next morning, about eleven o’clock, 
he makes his way to Police Headquarters and sends in 
his card to the Inspector. He is not kept waiting 
long, but is shown almost immediately into the 
Inspector’s private room. Henson, coming at once to 
the point, states the object of his visit and briefly but 
very clearly explains how, according to his conviction, 
it is impossible that there could have been any strug- 
gle between Bronk and his assailant. The Inspector 
listens politely. He has long ago discovered that 
there is often a good deal to be gained by listening 
and, besides, he makes a point of being very courteous 
to business and professional men, from whom he has 
from time to time been the recipient of sundry com- 
plimentary addresses, testimonials and banquets— to 
which little flattering attentions the Inspector is by no 
means impervious. Quite a diplomat is the Inspector! 


i62 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

He continues to listen patiently as Henson explains 
how, from a medical standpoint, all the indications 
point to the fact that the victim was taken completely 
by surprise and the death stroke inflicted without his 
having had any warning or suspicion of his assailant’s 
purpose. 

“These observations are very interesting, Doctor,” 
remarks the Inspector, smiling, as Henson comes to a 
close ; “ but you will allow me to call your attention 
to one very vital point.” 

The Inspector leans back in his chair and looks at 
his visitor quizzically. 

“It is?” asks Henson. 

“Just this, Doctor. The trouble is that your obser- 
vations — which, as I said before, are interesting, really 
most interesting — all tend to the breaking down of 
our case and not to the building of it up.” 

“ But suppose the case is founded on a mistake and 
that the prisoner is innocent ! ” 

“ That, Doctor,” replies the Inspector, suavely, “ is 
a matter for the attorney for the defence to prove and 
for the jury to decide. My duty is not to be the 
judge as to the prisoner’s guilt or innocence, but to 
discover the person to whom the evidence in the case 
points as the guilty one, and to leave it to a court of 
law to subsequently decide whether that evidence is 
sufficient to warrant conviction or not. My duty is to 
find evidence in support of the case for the prosecution ; 
not evidence tending to weaken, or break it down.” 

“ But if evidence turns up in an accused’s favor?"” 

“ Then, it is a matter interesting the attorney for 
the defence.” 

“But,” persists Henson, “by disregarding evidence 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 163 

of this nature, may it not lead to the detriment of the 
innocent and the escape of the guilty?” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaims the Inspector, “ if you can show 
me evidence indicating guilt in another quarter, that 
is very different. But, so far you have not ; on the 
contrary, your theory only tends to show lack of evi- 
dence in the case I have in hand. Now, the advan- 
tage of my position over yours is this : I hold a man 
against whom there is at least some very strong pre- 
sumptive evidence pointing to him as the murderer ; 
you, on the other hand, have nothing. Can you, per- 
haps, indicate to us somebody against whom there is 
a stronger case ? ” 

It seems to Henson as if the Inspector is looking at 
him with unpleasant persistency. 

‘‘No,” he replies, quickly; “I cannot do that. It 
j hardly comes in my line, you know,” he adds, with 
an air of indifference, as he rises to go. 

Outside the door of the Inspector’s room, he seems 
to breathe more easily ; it must have been oppressively 
close in there ! As he walks along the long corridor 
leading to the street, he rapidly goes over the inter- 
view he has just held. After all, he can understand 
the position the Inspector takes. He has only been 
able to find one man against whom any of the clews 
will fit, and that man he holds. Why should he let 
him go? 

How unfortunate that this young man should have 
gone to that office on that particular day; how unfor- 
tunate that he should chance to leave behind him a 
trace of his visit leading to such disastrous results ! 
How Halford would gloat over this instance in sub- 
stantiation of his theory as to Circumstance ! 


64 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


As for himself, he thinks, as he walks down the steps 
of the official building, he has done all he can for the 
present. 

That day Will Denton is arraigned before a police 
magistrate for preliminary examination and, upon 
application of the police, is remanded, pending further 
examination, for a week. Upon being re-arraigned at 
the end of this time, he is formally held to await the 
action of the Grand Jury. 


BOOK III. 


CHAPTER I. 

The autumn is now well-advanced, and with it has 
come that success for which Henson has struggled so 
hard. In fact, success has come to him quicker and 
in far more liberal measure than he had anticipated. 
His book, sold to the Astor-place publishers, has 
attracted a good deal of attention in the medical world 
and has become a source alike of reputation and of 
profit ; the appointment as consulting physician to the 
down-town insurance company has been secured. His 
greatest success, however, has been in connection with 
his experiments. One of these experiments, relating 
to the destruction of tubercular tissue, which he has 
recently almost perfected, has *been made public and 
has created a great sensation throughout the medical 
profession. Nor has this sensation been confined to 
professional limits alone. The daily newspapers have 
described at length the new discovery, and have com- 
mented upon it extensively. From New York the 
news has been sent by Associated Press all over the 
country, and from Maine to California Henson’s name 
has been read by millions of eyes, and spoken by 
hundreds of thousands of lips. Were he disposed to 
follow up this sudden outburst of publicity, he could 
quickly become a celebrity ; but his experiments 
being not yet quite completed, he obstinately keeps 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


1 66 

in the background as much as possible, declaring that 
he will not make the result of his investigations unre- 
servedly public until such time as his researches have 
reached the full point of perfection to which he 
designs to bring them. 

In this way, out of pure love of scientific accuracy, 
he coolly lets pass an opportunity to become quickly 
famous, confident that he can attain that fame later on 
in still ampler measure. 

In the meantime, his practice increases very 
largely, and during the limited hours which he is will- 
ing to take from his experiments and give to consul- 
tation, his rooms are crowded. So busy he becomes, 
and so readily money comes in in excess of his very 
moderate needs, that in a short time he finds it con- 
venient to resign the once so ardently desired appoint- 
ment with the insurance company. 

How little does the death of Bronk, that miserable 
diabetic, who only had a few days to live and who 
would almost to a certainty have been dead by this 
time, anyway, weigl\ in the balance against all this 
successful achievement! So unimportant a matter 
does this briefly shortened life seem to him, in fact, 
that it would occupy but little place in his thoughts 
were it not for that unfortunate Will Dent.on, who, 
indicted by the Grand Jury, lies in the City Prison 
awaiting trial in General Sessions. 

Were it not for this regrettable circumstance, days, 
and possibly whole series of days, might go by without 
the Bronk episode ever passing through his mind ; but 
with Will under indictment and Agnes sorrow 
stricken, he is constantly ’reminded of the death, of 
Bronk and of the fact that to that death he imme- 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 167 

diately owes his present success and they their 
trouble. 

That this trouble is only a temporary matter, how- 
ever, he firmly believes. In his opinion, the case the 
police have worked up against the young man cannot 
be a very strong one, and he feels confident of an 
acquittal when the trial is reached. Had he any idea 
to the contrary, he would certainly be very unhappy. 
As it is, it is bad enough that this young man should 
be for the time being deprived of his liberty ; that 
his mother should be ill with anxiety, and that 
Agnes, poor girl, should be so sorely troubled. 
Still, as far as that is concerned, he intends to make 
it all up to them very fully after Will’s release. 

In the meantime, however, nothing must be 
neglected in the young man’s behalf. His duty not 
only to Will and to Agnes, but also to himself, 
imperatively demands this! The first thing to be 
done, evidently, is to engage good counsel, and this 
he has attended to some time ago. At his special 
request, Agnes has left the question as to the terms 
of the retainer in his hands, and very delicately has 
he managed so that Agnes shall at least have no 
embarrassment on this score. 

At repeated intervals, he calls upon Winslow & 
Duncan, the attorneys retained in Will’s behalf. 
These lawyers are by no means so persuaded of the 
weakness of the prosecution’s case and confident of 
the ease with which the prisoner’s acquittal will be 
secured as is Henson. On the contrary, they seem 
to think that the prosecution has a very fair case; 
and the present District Attorney, who happens to be 
a remarkably powerful pleader, and who will person- 


1 68 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


ally take charge of the side for the people, may be 
relied upon, they declare, to make the most of it. 
Henson, however, who always bears in mind the guile 
natural to lawyers as a class, has an idea that Messrs. 
Winslow & Duncan simply assume this serious view 
in order to the more greatly emphasize and enhance 
the success they will achieve. Mr. Winslow, he 
knows, has the reputation of being one of the best 
office lawyers in the metropolis, a man thoroughly 
versed in all the intricacies and subtleties of the law ; 
and as for Mr. Duncan, he is admitted on all sides to 
be one of the rising great pleaders of the Bar. Hen- 
son makes a point of going to court and listening to 
a couple of cases which Mr. Duncan pleads, and so 
impressed is he with the advocate’s eloquence and 
ability that he goes away with less apprehension than 
ever on Will Denton’s account. 

Nor has Agnes all this time been idle. From cer- 
tain reports which have reached the defence, it is evi- 
dent that the prosecution is elaborately following up 
Will’s career alike in the city and out West. They 
are questioning all manner of people with whom he 
has at any time been brought in contact, and strenu- 
ous efforts are evidently being made to connect him in 
some way with a large slaughter house, or other estab- 
lishment of the kind, and thus trace the possession of 
the butcher’s knife found on the scene of the murder. 
Agnes, on her side, visits everybody friendly to Will 
and collects all evidence in the accused’s^ favor which 
is obtainable. In a word, everything that sisterly 
love and devotion can attempt and do, Agnes attempts 
and does. 

Affairs are progressing thus, when one evening 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 169 

Agnes comes in haste to Henson, her manner exicted, 
her face radiant. 

He is saved ! ” she cries, joyfully, in answer to 
Henson’s first question. 

A great wave of joy wells up within Henson. 

“ What is it ? what news have you ? ” 

“ We are safe now , in a few days poor Will will 
certainly be free.” 

She drops into a chair, all breathless in her excited 
eagerness. 

Henson gets a little impatient ; he is in a hurry to 
learn the details which Agnes has to give. 

“ WelV’ he exclaims, “ when am I going to be told 
this good news? It ought indeed to be good, since it is 
so long coming.” 

“ You shall hear it at once — at once. It is too good 
to keep, as you will say as soon as you hear it. Now, 
to begin; you know that yesterday one of the news- 
papers published Will’s picture.” 

“ Yes, so I saw.” 

‘‘ How they secured the portrait, I have not the 
least idea. All I know is that there it was in the 
paper yesterday. You can imagine my feelings upon 
seeing this portrait of poor Will, with the inscription 
beneath it : ‘ William Denton, accused of the Bronk 
murder.’ I know I was dreadfully angry and indig- 
nant, little dreaming of the great good the publica- 
tion of this portrait was going to bring about.” 

“ Well ; and what has resulted ? ” 

“ Proof positive that it was not Will who was there 
at the time of the murder. Listen ; about three 
o’clock this afternoon, just as I was going out, our 
bell rang ; I went to the door and found there a very 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


170 

neat looking servant girl, who asked to see me. 
When I told her I was Miss Denton, she said that her 
mistress, a Mrs. Ward, living in West Twenty-second 
Street, wished to see me as soon as possible. It was 
on a matter of much importance to me, Mrs. Ward 
had told her to say. I was quite puzzled for a 
moment, wondering what matter of great importance 
this strange lady could possibly want to see me about ; 
but the address— West Twenty-second Street — so near 
where Bronk was killed, quickly suggested to me it 
might be something about Will. As you may imagine, 
I lost no time in starting out with the maid.” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ Either the girl was a good walker, or I must have 
set her a pretty sharp pace, for we arrived at the 
house in West Twenty-second Street in a very short 
time. It was a handsome private house, beautifully 
kept inside and out. The maid showed me into a 
parlor on the ground floor and left me there, saying 
that she would notify Mrs. Ward of my arrival. In a 
very few minutes she came back to say that her mis- 
tress was ready to see me. I followed her up two 
flights of stairs and she led the way to an apartment 
in the back of the house. Upon entering this apart- 
ment, I found myself in the presence of a large, 
rather imposing looking lady, who was lying on a big 
invalid’s couch near one of the two windows of the 
room. She received me very kindly and very gra- 
ciously, and invited me to a seat beside the couch. 
As soon as the maid was gone, she asked me, in that 
slightly pathetic voice peculiar to a person who has 
been an invalid for a long time, whether I was Miss 
Denton, the sister of the young man under accusation 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 171 

of the Bronk murder. After I had answered her, she 
said that she had sent for me because she believed 
herself to be in a position to give important informa- 
tion bearing upon my brother’s innocence. You can 
just think how I felt as I heard these words! ” 

“ Yes — yes.” 

She then went on to say that in looking through 
the paper yesterday she had come across the picture 
of my brother. As soon as she saw it, she knew that 
an innocent man was accused ; for this picture was 
not that of the murderer, whom she had seen.” 

“ Seen ! ” 

It is a cry, rather than an exclamation that escapes 
his lips. He shivers from head to foot, as a man 
under some terrific shock. 

Seen, yes ; just as plainly as I see you now.” 

If, in her excitement, Agnes could notice anything, 
she would see that Henson has turned pale to the lips. 

“ Yes,” continues Agnes ; “ Mrs. Ward then told 
me the whole story. It appears that she has been an 
invalid for quite a long time past, suffering from some 
spinal trouble. The house belongs to her daughter 
and son-in-law, who are away on a long visit to Europe. 
She occupies by preference this room into which I was 
shown, as it gives her quite a nice view of the gardens 
attached to the private houses in the street. The 
windows of this room also face the windows in the 
rear of the business buildings in Twenty-third Street. 
Well ; on the afternoon of the day on which Bronk 
was murdered, she was lying on her couch looking out 
of the window. The day was rainy and rather dark, 
and presently she noticed that one of the offices 
almost facing her was lighted up. From where she 


172 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


lay, she could look direct into this office, and she saw 
an old man seated at an office table, apparently writ- 
ing. Her eyes continued to be caught from time to 
time by this window, as it was the only one lighted up 
on that floor. Presently, as she looked over, she saw 
that there was another man in this office, in addition 
to the old one she had first seen. As she looked, she 
saw this seconcf man rapidly approach the window and 
try to draw down the blind. Do you follow me ? ” 

Henson does not answer ; he makes a gesture, which 
she interprets as a sign to continue. 

“ At that moment,” resumes Agnes, “ she saw the 
old man take the light from the table and hold it above 
the other’s head, as if to help him to see what he was 
doing. In that instant, standing as he was in the full 
blaze of the light, she had a plain view of this second 
man’s face. She describes him as tall and big, 
with light hair and full light beard, and dressed 
in a black frock coat. She is sure she could recognize 
him again anywhere. As she looked, the man stepped 
up on a chair, and with one wrench, quickly pulled 
down the blind. Even at that moment, she noticed 
how quick and impatient all his movements were. 
Next morning, upon reading of the tragedy in the 
newspapers, she remembered everything and felt sure 
that this man she had seen was the murderer. The 
time, too, she is able to fix exactly, for almost within 
a minute after the blind was pulled down she remem- 
bers hearing the factory whistles, which are always 
blown at exactly six o’clock. Isn’t that so ? ” 

There comes a sound from Henson’s lips, which she 
takes for an assent. 

“ Mrs. Ward,” she continues, thoroughly engrossed 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 173 

with her story, “ was naturally much interested in the 
case and followed it closely in the newspapers. When 
she read of Will’s arrest, she believed that the police 
had captured the right man, as the description tallied 
well with that of the person she had seen — tall, blue- 
eyed, and blond. She did not at any time communi- 
cate anything of what she knew to the police, having 
all an invalid’s objection to being troubled by the 
visits of strangers, to say nothing of the disagreeable 
publicity. When, however, she came across Will’s 
picture yesterday, she at once realized that this was 
not the man she had seen lighted up at the window at 
six o’clock on the day of the murder, and in the inter- 
ests of common justice she sent forme. She is willing 
to give her testimony at any time and in any way that 
our counsel may desire. All she asks is that we will 
remember the delicate state of her health and not sub- 
ject her to any greater amount of excitement and 
trouble than is absolutely necessary. And now, 
Philip, you see that with this evidence at our disposi- 
tion everything is clear before us — Will’s case is 
won ! ” 


CHAPTER II. 

He stands before her gloomy and silent, giving no 
response to the triumphant exclamation with which 
she has .brought her story to a close. His silence 
causes her to quickly turn her eyes to his face, and 
now she perceives his ghastly pallor and the agitation 
under which he labors. 


174 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“What is the matter?” she asks, startled. 

“ Nothing,” he answers, curtly. 

“ I have not forgotten anything — there is nothing 
wrong in this evidence!” she continues, rapidly, 
thinking altogether of Will, as she imagines him also 
to be. 

In his dire confusion and distress of mind, her words 
open up for him an avenue of escape ; by following up 
the idea they have suggested, it will at least give him 
time to pull himself together. 

“ Tell me, is there anything wrong in this evi- 
dence?” she repeats. 

“ Yes; I fear so,” he answers, bluntly. 

“What!” exclaims Agnes, staggered; “you surely 
do not think that what Mrs. Ward has told me fails to 
clear Will ? ” 

“What Mrs. Ward has told you,” he answers, 
slowly, “ may be strong enough evidence for you or 
me, but will it prove equally valuable in a court of 
law?” 

“ How — why ? ” 

“ I saw you so overjoyed as you were telling me of 
Mrs. Ward that I could not bear to interrupt you,” 
he continues. 

“ You think, then, that this evidence is without 
value ? ” she cries in dismay. 

“ No,” he answers, cautiously ; “ I do not quite say 
that. I am only warning you not to build too much 
on it. We must go over this evidence carefully, and 
look at it from all sides. Certainly what this lady has 
told you contains several very important points — ” 

“ Oh, so it seemed to me. I thought her story 
would be of the utmost value to us.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 175 

“ Her evidence is of great value, no doubt of that- 
provided only that it is entitled to belief.” 

“ Entitled to belief ! ” repeats Agnes, with great 
astonishment. Surely there can be no question as to 
that She is a lady, not only of the highest respecta- 
bility, but also of position and of means. What con- 
ceivable motive could there be for her telling such a 
story if it were not true? ” 

“ The prosecution, I am sorry to say, might find 
certain reasons which, naturally, have not presented 
themselves to you. Let me ask you a few questions. 
You say that she is suffering from some spinal trouble, 
involving partial paralysis, I presume ? ” 

“ Yes ; that is what she told me ? ” 

‘‘Ah, there’s the trouble ! Paralysis is an affection 
very complicated and peculiar in its effects, and the 
question comes in here, what are its particular symp- 
toms and effects in the case of this lady? In some 
instances, paralysis superinduces a very disordered con- 
dition of the organ of sight ; in other instances, again, 
the mental faculties are affected. Now, how is it 
with this Mrs. Ward ? Can we be quite sure that 
her illness has left her sight and mind perfectly 
clear?” 

Agnes is completely taken back. 

“ I never thought of that,” she murmurs, deject- 
edly. 

“ Naturally not ; but I am a physician and, as you 
spoke, these objections at once presented themselves 
to me. As I listened to you, I could not for a mo- 
ment forget the fact that this was the story of a para- 
lytic, with the history and symptoms of whose case I 
was unacquainted — a story, therefore, under these 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


176 

circumstances, to be received with the utmost caution. 
You must have noticed how startled I was?’' 

“ I never thought of all that,” repeats Agnes, with 
growing despondency, “ Poor Will ; I thought so 
much had been gained for him ! ” * 

She cannot quite keep back her tears, and she 
presses her handkerchief to her eyes. 

“ I am sorry to have given you pain,” he says, 
touched by her distress, “and I think it only right 
to warn you now against being too cast down, as I 
warned you a few minutes ago against being too 
elated. Please understand me well ; I do not say that 
the evidence of this Mrs. Ward is without value, or 
without possible benefit to Will’s case; I am only 
seeking to caution you against placing a too implicit 
reliance upon the declarations of a paralytic, of whom 
we as yet know so little.” 

He then goes on to cite to her instances of persons 
who, rational in an ordinary way, have yet -been sub- 
ject to the most extraordinary hullucinations, and who 
described, in the utmost good faith, things which they 
believed they had seen, but which, as a matter of fact, 
they could never have witnessed. There were even 
many well-authenticated instances, he goes on to 
explain, of persons who, under the influence of hallu- 
cinations, had actually accused themselves of crimes, 
which it had been clearly shown it was utterly impos- 
sible for them to have committed. Thus he talks on, 
very much like a pleader in court presenting his cause, 
or like a man seeking to persuade himself by subtlety 
of reasoning and the eloquence of his own words. 
But, reason as he will, and cite instances as he may, he 
cannot free himself of the consciousness that, what- 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


177 


ever may be the nature of this woman’s paralysis, her 
sight and memory have been true and clear — a tall, 
big man, blond and full bearded, in a black frock 
coat, pulling at the cord of the obstructed blind ; that 
was just it ! 

How was it that he had never thought of the possi- 
bility of this danger before ? Everything had been 
done so quickly ! Who could have surmised that just 
at the moment when Bronk held the light beside his 
head a woman was looking full into his face ? What a 
toy one was, after all, of these little chance happen- 
ings 1 He had thought to take a wise precaution in 
pulling down that shade ; yet, as it chanced, it would 
have been safer for him to do what he had gone there 
to do, with the blind high up, than to have stepped to 
that window in that full blaze of light. Had the 
affair been enacted with the blind raised, the people 
in these Twenty-second Street houses might have 
caught some more or less indistinct glimpses of the 
episode ; but no one could have plainly seen every 
outline of his face, and be able to recognize it again, 
as was the case now. Even had this woman witnessed 
his every action, it was less vitally important than that 
she should have seen his face ; for, before she could 
have raised an alarm, and any person she might have 
summoned could have reached the Twenty-third 
Street block, he would have been safe again in the 
street. 

In guarding against one danger, he had exposed 
himself to a far more serious one ! 

Presently, Agnes’ hopes, depressed to the lowest 
ebb under the dampening effect of Henson’s words, 
experience a reaction and begin to rise again a little. 


178 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“After all,” she observes, “is it not possible that 
Mrs. Ward may really have seen what she says she 
saw ? ” 

“ Possible, yes ; I have never for a moment said that 
it was not possible. More than that ; knowing as we 
do that your brother is certainly innocent, it is even 
probable that she did see what she describes.” 

“ Well ; what if Mrs. Ward’s sight was true ? ” 

“Then, it means most important evidence for our 
side. What I am seeking to impress upon you is, the 
necessity of accurately determining that she is in a 
condition in which her testimony may be accepted at 
its full weight.” 

“ Could not a physician, after an examination, 
decide as to that ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ What if you were the physician ? ” 

“ I ! ” 

There is alike horror and surprise in his voice. 
Why, this woman declares she would be able to clearly 
recognize the face she saw lighted up at the window ! 
And he is asked to call upon her ! 

It is with difficulty that he controls his feelings and 
forces himself to make answer. 

“ How could that be ? ” he says, after a pause, his 
voice trembling slightly despite his best efforts ; “ how 
am I to make an examination of this woman ? It is 
the patient selects the doctor, not the doctor the 
patient.” 

“ But, suppose she called you in? ” 

“ Why should she ? She has her own doctor, of 
course.” 

“ Well ; could you not judge of her case if her 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


179 


symptoms were described to you ? I think 1 could, 
perhaps, manage to find out pretty accurately what 
these symptoms are, and report them to you.’' 

“ That is not a bad idea. Find out everything you 
can about her and let me know what you learn. I 
may find this information of value ; who knows?” 

“ I must ask, too, who is her doctor. Perhaps you 
may know him and then you could hear from him all 
about her case.” 

“Also an excellent idea! Try and get this infor- 
mation for me as soon as possible.” 

All this time, both while listening and talking, Hen- 
son has been going over the situation in his mind. 
What are the first steps Agnes means to take in con- 
nection with this evidence she has just discovered ? 
It is of vital importance now that he should closely 
watch every turn in the case ; that he should know 
every move in advance. Nothing must be neglected ; 
nothing left to chance. 

“ At what time did you go to Mrs. Ward ? ” he asks. 

** It was a little after three o’clock.” 

“And what did you do immediately after leaving 
her?” 

“ I came straight to you, of course. I was so anx- 
ious to tell you everything that I did not know how 
to get here fast enough.” 

“And now, what do you propose to do next?” 

“ The next thing to do, I suppose, is to communi- 
cate to our lawyers what we have learned.” 

“Yes, we certainly ought to do that. If you like, I 
will go down-town and see them now. I shall just 
have time to catch them before they leave for the 
day.” 


i8o 


’PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Thanks, dear Philip, you are very kind. Will you 
return to me at once and let me know what they 

, 

“At once. Where will you wait for me?” 

“ I will go home and wait for you there.” 


CHAPTER III. 

In taking upon himself this visit to the lawyers, 
Henson has no idea of suppressing, or distorting the 
evidence gleaned by Agnes. Certainly nothing could 
be gained by doing that. The true facts are bound to 
come out, anyway, and any attempt to distort them 
would be a clumsy move whose only possible result 
could be to needlessly draw suspicion upon himself. 
No ; his only object in calling upon the lawyers is 
to be the first to learn the view they take of these new 
developments and- what line of action they propose to 
follow. 

Upon reaching the office of Messrs. Winslow & 
Duncan, he is at once shown into Mr. Duncan’s pri- 
vate room and he narrates to that gentleman the com- 
plete story as communicated to him by Agnes. He 
then very briefly touches upon the medical aspect of 
the case, as to the nature of Mrs. Ward’s illness possi- 
bly rendering the accuracy of her evidence open to 
question. 

Mr. Duncan listens closely to all Henson has to say. 
When, finally, he com^s to a stop, he remains silent 
for a moment, closing his eyes, as a man who wishes 
to shut himself up with his thoughts. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


I8l 


“ How many people," he asks, suddenly opening his 
eyes and looking at Henson, “ know of the story of 
this Mrs. Ward ? " 

Henson is at a loss to positively answer this. He 
cannot tell to whom she may have spoken, he ex- 
plains, but from the fact that she had omitted to 
communicate any information to the police, and from 
her desire expressed to Agnes that she be exposed to as 
little trouble and publicity as possible, he should im- 
agine that she had not broached the subject to many. 

“We must find out to whom she has talked," com- 
ments the lawyer. “ This is of great importance." 

“Why?" 

“ Have you not just explained to me," replies Mr. 
Duncan, “ the objection which may be raised as to her 
testimony — objections which I at once foresaw and 
very fully appreciate ? " 

“Well?" 

“ Well, our business is," continues the lawyer, “ to 
afford the prosecution as little chance as possible to 
work up this line of objection. Now, let us glance over 
this case as it stands. Here we have a woman of good 
standing, a disinterested witness whose motives can- 
not be open to question, whom we can bring forward 
to testify that almost on the stroke of six o’clock, a 
good half-hour after our client according to the jani- 
tress’ testimony left the building — she> saw another 
person in the murdered man’s room. This person, 
who, she is prepared to swear, was not our client, is 
observed by her to hurriedly pull down the window 
shade and otherwise act in a manner which, under the 
circumstances, may certainly be construed as suspi- 
cious. The significance of this testimony is, of course. 


i 82 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


obvious at a glance. It shows, in the first place, that 
the murdered man was alive half an hour after 
our client is known to have left him and, next, 
that the deceased was visited by another person who, 
there is at least a strong presumption, was the actual 
murderer. Do you follow me.^” 

Henson says nothing ; he simply nods. 

“ The moment this evidence is fully accepted,” 
resumes the lawyer, our case is won. The witness’ 
character and motives are simply unassailable. There 
is only one flaw — the question as to her physical 
state, as you have just pointed out. Persons suffering 
from the malady with which she is afflicted are, as you 
admit, frequently subject to hallucinations, and you 
may rely upon the prosecution making the very most 
of this, their only point. You may count upon their 
having any amount of expert testimony at hand to 
show how peculiarly subject persons suffering from this 
disorder are to mental and visual aberrations in 
various forms. In this way, they will seek to cast doubt 
upon and destroy the full weight of this witness’ 
testimony.” 

“ And how do you propose to offset this ? ” 

“ Very simply. I propose, if possible, to keep our 
witness in the background until the last moment and 
not give the prosecution an opportunity to elaborately 
work up the point of objection to which her testimony 
is open. I propose to wait until the case comes to 
trial ; to let the prosecution go ahead and present its 
side ; and, then, at the last moment, to spring Mrs. 
Ward’s evidence as a surprise. You can imagine the 
advantage and effect of this course.” 

Henson remains silent for a moment, thinking over 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D; 1 83 

this plan of action that agrees so well with his 
wishes. 

“ It will work like a charm,” comments the lawyer, 
“provided only that this Mrs. Ward has not already 
talked so much that her story will come to the ears of 
the prosecution.” 

“ But,” suggests Henson, “ will not the fact of this 
story having been kept in the background until the 
last moment subject her testimony to suspicion.^” 

“ No, I think not. The fact of her being an invalid 
and her dislike of trouble and publicity are sufficient 
explanation for the holding back of her story. I will 
undertake to make that clear.” 

Henson turns over the plan once more in his mind. 
The more he thinks it over, the better he finds it 
suits him. 

“How, though,” he asks, presently, foreseeing 
another objection, “ do you propose to get this bed- 
ridden woman to the witness stand ? I do not know 
whether her condition is such that it will be found 
possible to bring her into court.” 

“That is an important question,” replies Mr. Dun- 
can. “ I was relying upon you as to that.” 

“ How so ? ” 

“ I was counting upon your being able to bring her 
around sufficiently to enable her to appear in court.” 

“ What can I do toward that ? I am not her doc- 
tor.” 

“But can you not go and see her? You must at 
least find out for us what the chances are of her being 
able to appear.” 

“ Impossible ! ” 

“ I do not see why ! I think*if I talked this matter 


84 


‘PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


over with Miss Denton we might devise some way by 
which you would be called in.” 

For God’s sake ! do not do that.” 

“ Why ? ” 

Henson hesitates an instant. 

“ It is so contrary to medical ethics,” he answers, at 
last, “ for a physician to allow himself to be thrust 
upon a patient in this manner. Suppose, anyway,” he 
continues, it should not be possible to bring her into 
court ?” 

“ Then,” replies the lawyer, “ we could still present 
her evidence in the form of a deposition, but it would 
not be anything like the same thing — nothing like so 
strong and effective as her story told direct from the 
witness stand. No, no, we must manage to get her to 
court some way. If you were only attending her, I 
am sure that, with your professional skill, you would 
soon put her on her feet. Really, it is a great pity if 
we cannot manage to have you called in.” 

“ It seems to me,” answers Henson, that we have 
every reason to seek this lady’s good will and that it 
is scarcely a wise way to cultivate it by forcing upon 
her a strange physician. She will hardly feel flattered, 
I should think, if we allow our suspicions as to her 
capabilities to become apparent.” 

“ Very true,” assents Mr. Duncan, “ and we must, of 
course, be careful as to all that. Still,” with an air of 
regret, “ I wish you could manage to come in con- 
tact with her.” 

Henson is furious. This persistency exasperates 
him. He rises and brings the interview to a close. 

In the street, the lawyer’s words keep ringing in his 
ears : 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


185 


A pity that he cannot manage to be brought in con- 
tact with this woman ! Of all things in the world, he 
must manage to avoid that ! 


CHAPTER IV. 

From the offices of Messrs. Winslow & Duncan, 
Henson, according to his promise, goes direct to 
Agnes’s house. Arrived there, he finds a surprise 
awaiting him. He is received by Mrs. Denton, who 
informs him that Agnes is out ; she has gone to 
see Mrs. Ward. 

Henson is somewhat startled. What is the mean- 
ing of this second visit ? Have any unforeseen circum- 
stances occurred in the brief interval since he left 
Agnes to cause her to go back to Mrs. Ward so soon? 

Mrs. Denton, he finds, can enlighten him little. All 
she can tell him is that Agnes returned to the house 
much excited and related to her the great news about 
Mrs. Ward, at the ‘same time telling her of the ques- 
tion which might be raised as to the reliability of her 
testimony. They had discussed the matter together 
for some time, Agnes being evidently greatly worried 
over this one doubtful point. Suddenly she had 
jumped up and, putting on her bonnet and cloak, had 
said she was going back to Mrs. Ward. She had not 
stopped to say any more, declaring that she would 
explain everything when she came back. 

Henson is by no means pleased over this visit 
undertaken without consulting him, but under the cir- 
cumstances there is nothing to be done except to wait 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


1 86 

with as much patience as he can muster. In the 
meantime, Mrs. Denton, who is almost beside herself 
with hope and joy over the new developments, plies 
him with questions as to his opinion about this latest 
phase of the case. Surely, she asks. Will’s release 
will soon follow now ? There can be no real doubt, 
can there, about the reliability of this lady’s testi- 
mony ? Are the lawyers surely following the wisest 
course in holding back this evidence until the trial? 
If it were submitted to the authorities at once, would 
there be no chance of Will’s immediate release ? Hen- 
son feels profoundly ill at ease. How can he say any- 
thing to dash the hopes of this unhappy mother ! 

Time goes by and still Agnes does not return. 
What can be keeping her so long? Finally, Mrs. 
Denton herself becomes impatient. 

Could you not go and meet her at Mrs. Ward’s ? ” 
she Ventures, evidently with some indefinite idea of 
hastening Agnes’s return. 

A great feeling of revolt surges up within Henson. 
Is the whole population of the city banded together in 
a conspiracy to drag him into the presence of this 
woman ! It is with difficulty that he hides his annoy- 
ance. 

“ No,” he replies, forcing himself to answer calmly> 
“ I think I had better not do that. I should very 
likely miss her on the way.” 

This objection interposed by Henson proves to be 
well taken, for a very few minutes later a quick ring 
of the bell announces that Agnes has at last returned. 
She comes into the room with quick step and flashing 
color, her face plainly showing that her mission has 
been attended with success. Her mother and Henson 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 1 87 

give her little time to collect herself after her hasty 
run home, but at once press her for her story. 

“ You have been to Mrs. Ward ? ” questions Henson, 
anxious and alert. 

“Yes.” 

“Well?“ exclaim Mrs. Denton and Henson 
together. 

“ Mrs. Ward, I find, has perfect sight, a thoroughly 
clear mind, and is in full possession of all her mental 
faculties. There is no longer any doubt possible 
about her ; it would be hard to find anybody who 
could be relied upon more fully.” 

With a cry of joy, Mrs. Denton dasps her daughter 
in her arms and, resting her head upon Agnes’s 
shoulder, finds vent for her great emotion in tears. 

“Thank God, for my poor boy’s sake !” she mur- 
murs, brokenly. 

Agnes, her arm thrown around her mother’s waist, 
supports her and at the same time looks over her 
shoulder with happy eyes at Henson, who is compelled 
to make desperate efforts to appear becomingly glad 
in the midst of this rejoicing. 

“ Everything seems to turn as well as could be 
wished ! ” he exclaims, feeling that he is expected to 
say something. “ It was wise, though, to be on the 
safe side and make sure of all this.” 

“ What do the lawyers say ? ” asks Agnes. 

Henson explains the course advised by Mr. Duncan. 

“ We need have no fear of Mrs. Ward’s evidence 
becoming known to the prosecution,” she exclaims, 
upon learning of Mr. Duncan’s fears on this score, “as 
you will see after hearing what I have learned during 
my last visit to this lady. Now,” turning to Henson, 


• i88 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


‘‘to commence from the beginning. After leaving 
you and coming with the news to mamma, I could not 
rest. The possibility of Mrs. Ward being simply an 
invalid subject to hallucinations kept haunting me, 
and I blamed myself, oh ! so much, for not having 
taken better notice of her manners and peculiarities 
while I was with her. I made up my mind, all of a 
sudden, to call on her again. It was, of course, a 
pretty bold thing to do, this calling on her twice 
within such a short space of time, but it was for Will’s 
sake, and I felt capable of anything. When I reached 
the house, I sent up my name and word was brought 
back to me, not by the same servant as before, but by 
an older woman, apparently a housekeeper or nurse, 
that Mrs. Ward would be pleased to see me again if I 
would wait a few’ minutes. As good fortune would 
have it, this second servant proved to be a person 
with quite a love for talking, and from her I learned 
with little trouble a great many useful particulars. 
Mrs. Ward, it seems, has only been so severe an 
invalid for a little more than a year, although for a 
long time before that she was ailing. At times she 
suffers very severe pain, but she has never been at all 
afflicted mentally. On the contrary, she is very clear- 
headed, with an excellent memory, and attends to all 
her own business affairs concerning- property which 
she owns. All this I had learned by the time the 
message came down that Mrs. Ward was now ready to 
receive me.” 

“ Could anything be better than that ! ” exclaims 
Mrs. Denton, triumphantly. 

“ When I was again shown into Mrs. Ward’s room,” 
continues Agnes, “ she received me most graciously. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 1 89 

I began by apologizing for troubling her again so 
soon. She quickly interrupted me, saying that 
although it was true that she objected as a rule to the 
visits of strangers, yet she was always glad to see her 
friends, and those in wdiom she took an interest ; she 
really felt a genuine interest in my case, and I could 
count upon her being pleased to see me at any time. 
Of course, I expressed my deep gratitude, and then 
went on to give the pretext I had devised as an excuse 
for this second visit. For this pretext,” turning some- 
what timidly to Henson, “ I have to ask your indul- 
gence.” 

“ My indulgence ! ” he exclaims, alarmed. 

“ Yes ; remember that I had not much time to 
think over what to say, and I had to give the best 
excuse I could find at si5ch short notice. I told her 
that the information she had given me was of such 
vital importance to my brother — to us all — that I had 
ventured to hope she would allow me to call upon her 
accompanied by a friend of our family, who would be 
better qualified to properly gather her evidence and 
present it to our lawyers than I. I had come, I said, 
to ask if it would be convenient for her to allow me to 
call with this friend to-morrow. She replied that it 
would be quite convenient. The friend alluded to,” 
glancingly pleadingly toward Henson, “ was, of course, 
you.” 

“Me!” 

“Yes." 

“ Did I not tell you — ! ” he cries, violently. 

Instantly he checks himself, realizing that this 
annoyance he shows must appear very strange and not 
at all warranted by the circumstances. 


90 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ Yes,” answers Agnes, quickly, “you did tell me 
that you could not call upon her professionally, unless 
you were properly sent for in the usual way ; but 
remember that you are not now asked to see her as a 
physician, but simply as a friend of our family.” 

“ I understand that,” answers Henson, who has by 
this time partly regained his self-control, “but she 
will find that I am a physician, and my experience is 
that invalids are generally very sensitive over any 
attempt to force the visit of any strange physician upon 
them. As I remarked to Mr. Duncan, it is certainly 
our policy to seek in every way to retain this lady’s 
good will, and we shall scarcely further this end if we 
allow our suspicions as to her mental capacity to 
appear. He quite agreed with me on this point. Did 
you,” he continues, “ find out while you were with 
Mrs. Ward whether she had made her story knf)wn to 
many other people ? ” 

“ She has not. She told me of her own accord that 
she had not told it to anybody but me, fearing that if 
it got abroad she would be troubled by the visits of 
police officers and reporters. In my first interview, 
you will recall, she asked me to keep the matter from 
gaining publicity until the last moment, so that she 
would be spared as much trouble as possible.” 

“That just accords with Mrr Duncan’s wishes,” 
comments Henson. “ Did you note any of her 
symptoms while you were with her?” 

“Very closely. Her manner seemed to me calm 
and very composed ; her words were clear, well-chosen, 
and without the slightest trace of incoherency ; in 
fact, it struck me that she expressed her ideas unusu- 
ally clearly and well. She seems fairly strong, and is 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


191 


able to move her arms and the upper portion of her 
body quite freely. Her lower limbs, though, as far as 
I could observe them under the coverings, she cannot 
move, and I should imagine that she suffered a good 
deal from chilliness, for both times that I called upon 
her the room seemed heated to quite an uncomfort- 
able degree.” 

“ That is something like an examination ! ” exclaims 
Henson, admiringly. “ No doctor could have done 
better. It is quite unnecessary for me to call upon 
this lady. From what you tell me, it is clear that 
Mrs. Ward is in full possession of her mental faculties, 
and that her testimony, is beyond question on this 
score. Don’t let us risk anything by annoying her, or 
troubling her uselessly.” 

Both Mrs. Denton and Agnes greet these words 
with open demonstrations of joy. As for Henson, he 
draws a long breath, as a man who has just escaped 
from some pressing danger. 

“ Did you,” he continues, “ make any inquiry as to 
her physical ability to attend the court-room?” 

“ No ; I did not, for she herself thought of that 
point. She told me that her doctor entertained such 
hopes of her speedy improvement that she had every 
anticipation of being able to take the witness stand in 
Will’s behalf when called.” 

“ You did not think to ask who was her doctor? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ Who is he ? ” 

“ Dr. Babcock Taylor, of West Twenty-fourth Street. 
Do you know him ? ” 

^‘Yes; a pompous ignoramus, who hides his igno- 
rance beneath an air of ridiculous solemnity.” 


192 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


The words are barely out of his mouth, when he 
realizes the blunder he has committed. This Mrs. 
Ward, of course, must have a physician of the highest 
standing, whose ability is of the very first order. 
Agnes at once seizes the point. 

“ How, then* are we to expect Mrs. Ward’s recovery 
to be rapid,” she asks, “ in the hands of such a physi- 
cian ? ” 

Henson is quick to retrieve his mistake. 

“ Hear me to the end,” he exclaims. I was going 
to add that in cases of paralysis, of which he has made 
a specialty, he is not without repute. In such cases, 
I should regard him as a very cautious, careful, con- 
servative practitioner — in a word, just the physician 
Mrs. Ward needs.” 

With these reassuring words, and declining Mrs. 
Denton’s warmly extended invitation to remain and 
dine with them, he takes his leave. It is with a great 
sense of relief that he finds himself alone in the street, 
at liberty to think over all that has transpired. 


CHAPTER V. 

So, he thinks to himself as, the wind blowing 
sharply in his face, he turns down the avenue ; so, 
everybody seems leagued to force him into that house 
in West Twenty-second Street. First Agnes; next, 
the lawyer; then Mrs. Denton. Who will come 
next ? 

At first blush, it seems an easy thing to make up 
his mind that he will keep away from that house 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


193 


under all circumstances, but the pressure brought to 
bear upon him is of so persistent and so peculiar a 
character that he cannot help asking himself what it 
may all lead to in the long run. 

Really, circumstances have taken a most extraordi- 
nary turn of late — a turn so remarkable that it might 
not unreasonably be ascribed to some strange interpo- 
sition of Providence, or Fate. Of course, though, he 
does not seriously think anything of the kind ; not 
having any belief in either Providence or Fate. Still, 
it is all very queer! For several months he has 
enjoyed a sense of absolute security, content in the 
conviction that all danger was forever past. Now, 
here he is suddenly confronted with danger in so 
unexpected a form that hereafter he can never again 
feel that he is not open to some startling surprise — 
that he is unquestionably and positively secure. 
Disagreeable as the thought may be, it is only wise 
for him now to realize that hereafter he must ever be 
unceasingly watchful, alert, on the defensive — in a 
word, that to the end of his life he will be the prisoner 
of his crime. 

Of the future, however, he must not lose time in 
thinking; it is to the present he must give his atten- 
tion ; that is, to the subj-ect of this dangerous Mrs. 
Ward. 

For her to have asserted so positively, simply on the 
strength of a newspaper portrait, that this was not the 
man she had seen at the window, she must obviously 
be a woman possessed of a remarkably clear, retentive 
memory, sharp eyes, and strong decision. 

Decidedly a dangerous person I 

If she ever meets him, she will to a certainty recog- 


194 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


nize him and, judging from what he has learned of her 
already, she will not hesitate to speak. 

Would she be believed? 

Well, under all the circumstances and in view of 
the points which might turn up now should suspicion 
once be diverted against him, he would dislike intensely 
to put it to the test ! 

True, as good luck would have it, she is an invalid 
confined to her bed. He is not exposed to the dan- 
ger of running into her in the street ; of meeting her 
unexpectedly at some public resort, or in the house of 
some mutual acquaintance, and of hearing the shriek 
of surprise and horror which would doubtless ring out 
as she saw and recognized him. Still, although not 
actually exposed to this peril, it will never do to allow 
himself to be lulled into any imprudent sense of secur- 
ity ; he must ever keep a careful outlook for any new 
dangers that may lurk. 

To the entreaties of Agnes, the urgings of the law- 
yers, the pleadings of Mrs. Denton, or of any other 
persons whatsoever, he must, of course, oppose an un- 
yielding resistance, and at all hazards not allow him- 
self to be lured into the sick chamber to which this 
paralytic is confined. So far, he has successfully 
eluded all movements in this direction ; he must con- 
tinue to do so. Will he then be beyond the reach of 
any danger of recognition by this woman ? 

Not fully. According to Mr. Duncan’s plan of 
operations, she is to be brought to the witness stand 
and is to give her testimony in open court. He, 
too, is a witness at this trial. What if Mrs. Ward 
should recognize him in face of judge, jury, and spec- 
tators? The dramatic scene with which the lawyer 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. I95 

counts to bring about the prisoner’s acquittal would 
certainly, under these circumstances, be more intensely 
dramatic than that gentleman has ever dreamed of! 

A fair chance, however, presents itself of avoiding 
this dramatic episode, which would certainly not be 
without its unpleasantness for him. There is a very 
strong question as to whether Mrs. W^rd will be in 
such a condition that she can be brought to court. It 
is quite possible that her evidence may have to be 
given by deposition. In that case, all will be well ; 
he can safely go to court and testify. If, however, 
she is sufficiently well to be able to appear — what 
then ? 

There is evidently only one way out of the difficulty, 
and that is to greatly change his'appearance" and ren- 
der himself not readily recognizable. He must shave 
off his beard, alter the cut of his hair ; in other words, 
be no longer the man with the full head of blond hair 
and full blond beard seen at the window. 

Certainly nothing could be easier than to drop in at 
his barber’s and have this work performed ; but does 
not this course offer its objections? Will not this 
marked and sudden change in his appearance arouse 
comment and possibly even give rise to suspicion ? 
The question is certainly a very’ delicate one, and yet 
to hesitate would indubitably be folly. His safety 
imperatively demands that he at once change his ap- 
pearance ; the sooner the better. 

Having arrived at this conclusion, he turns in the 
direction of the barber shop which he is wont to pat- 
ronize. He has not gone far, however, when a new 
idea strikes him. Is it not a very ill-advised move to 
go to this barber who knows him ? Barbers are 


196 


riilLIP HENSON, M. D. 


notoriously chatterboxes and nothing is more likely 
than that this man will narrate to half-a-dozen of his 
customers how he has shaved off the beard of Dr. 
Henson — the man, you know, who had such a big 
blond beard. This will never do ; all his interest lies 
in avoiding all unnecessary comment and attention as 
much as possible. 

He accordingly makes his way to a neighboring 
hotel, where he is not known. He is just on the point 
of entering the shop attached to this hotel when an- 
other thought comes to him. Agnes will certainly be 
much surprised over this loss of his beard and hair. 
Why not lessen her surprise by preparing her for this 
loss, in advance ? That is a better idea ! 

Turning away from the barber shop, he enters in- 
stead the restaurant of the hotel and orders his din- 
ner, furious with himself and things in general at being 
obliged to resort to these miserable subterfuges. 

As he dines, however, he cannot help congratulating 
himself upon one fortunate circumstance, the existence 
of which he may reasonably ascribe to his natural lack 
of vanity. So little, in fact, in the past few years has 
he cared about his personal appearance that he has 
never gone to the trouble of having a photograph 
taken.. Agnes has at various times made appeals for 
one, but he has always put the matter off, so that to- 
day the only photograph of him that she possesses is 
one taken when he was a lad of twenty, before his 
beard had grown and when he certainly looked very 
different from what he does now. When the news- 
papers were publishing accounts of his recent discover- 
ies, applications were several times made for his por- 
trait for publication, but he had invariably declined, 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


197 


which was just now decidedly a subject for sincere con- 
gratulation. A nice position he would be in if his like- 
ness were drifting around in half-a-dozen public prin-ts, 
liable to falhunder Mrs, Ward’s eyes at any moment ! 
Fortunately, there is no cause for uneasiness on this 
account. 

When next day, late in the afternoon, he calls upon 
Agnes, and she comes forward with her usual glad 
greeting, she finds herself held at arm’s length. 

“ Whatever is the matter? ” she cries, dismayed. 

“ Merely a trifle,” he replies, smiling ; “ but it is a 
trifle which renders it necessary for me to take care not 
to come too close to you.” 

Instantly the smiling face becomes very grave. 

“ You are not ill ? ” she asks, in an anxious whisper. 

“ No, no,” he answers, reassuringly ; “ not ill. It is 
nothing alarming ; don’t get so frightened.” 

Quick, then ; tell me what it is ! ” she cries, look- 
ing anxiously into his face, in search of any trace of 
suffering. 

“There, there,” he answers, soothingly; “I sa/ 
again there is no need to be frightened ; you see I am 
*not alarmed.” 

“No,” she rejoins, tenderly, “you never have any 
thought for yourself; you are always thinking of 
others.” 

“ You give me too much credit,” he replies, with a 
slight embarrassment, “ and you will be more inclined 
to laugh than to be frightened when you hear what is 
the matter. It is simply this— I am in danger of los- 
ing my hair.” 

“ Of losing your hair ? ” 

“ Yes ; I am afraid it is going to drop out.” 


198 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

“ What a shame — your beautiful hair ! What is the 
cause f 

“ Well, it is due to a parasitical affection of the fol- 
licles ; an affection by no means so uncommon as is 
generally supposed.” 

“ Is it anything very serious?” 

“ Serious, no ; although somewhat annoying, since 
one of the first requirements is that the hair both of 
the head and face be shaved close so as to permit of 
successful treatment. If the disease is what I sus- 
pect, I shall, you see, be obliged to have both my hair 
and my beard cut close.” 

“ Oh, what a pity ! ” 

“ Another disagreeable feature is that this disease is 
transmitted, with extreme facility, by contact. I shall, 
therefore, have to keep at a very respectful distance 
from you for the next few days, or you might, perhaps, 
find yourself under the very disagreeable necessity of 
having your hair cut off, as I shall have to probably. 
With me this is, of course, a matter of small conse- 
* quence, but for you to lose those beautiful tresses would 
certainly be nothing short of a calamity.” ^ 

“ You say, probably; it is not certain, then ? ” 

“ Not yet. I am making certain investigations 
which will not be concluded until to-night. If the 
trouble ts as I fear, I shall not hesitate, but shall go in 
for the cutting off process at once. Do not be sur- 
prised, therefore, if to-morrow you see me without 
beard or hair.” 

“ What will happen then ? ” 

“ Under energetic treatment, the trouble will quickly 
disappear, so that in a few days I can approach you 
again — that is, if you don’t find me too ugly.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


99 


“ Oh, dearest ! ” 

“There,” he continues, it being evident that Agnes 
has accepted his explanation in complete good faith, 

“ that is enough about me. Tell me now about your- 
self, and what you have been doing to-day. Have you 
seen Mrs. Ward again? ” 

“ Yes. You know I had an appointment to go with 
you this morning, but as you decided not to accom- 
pany me I called alone to tell her of the course our 
lawyers advised regarding her testimony. She re- 
ceived me as graciously as before and I had a long 
talk with her. She is quite willing to do as our law- 
yers suggest and hopes to be able to appear in court 
on the day of the trial.” 

“ She expects to leave her bed soon ! ” exclaims Hen- 
son, quickly. 

“Yes, she has that hope. Her physician, Dr. « 
Babcock Taylof,” she said, “ had promised that he 
would enable her to be up and about before long.” 

“Ah! Dr. Taylor has promised her that?” he 
asks, inwardly commenting that little importance is 
to be attached to this, or any other prediction Dr. 
Babcock Taylor may make. 

“Yes; do you think he is skilful enough for us to 
count much on his promise? ” 

“ I thinlc so.” 

“ Are you certain ? Remember how much depends 
on her being able to get to that court-room, and the 
day of the trial is now not so very far off. You did 
not seem to think much of this Dr. Taylor yes- 
terday.” 

“ You misunderstood me, I think. Dr. Taylor 
is by no means without merit. In a difficult case. 


200 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


exacting a highly skilful diagnosis, there are undoubt 
edly others whom I would prefer ; but in a case like 
this, requiring simply patient watching and treatment, 
I think Mrs. Ward could not well be in better hands.” 

“ Oh, if you only had her case, how confident I 
should be ! How I wish you could see her! ” 

“ I have said that is impossible,” he replies, coldly. 
“ I will, however, make a point of coming across Dr. 
Taylor this evening. I know just where to meet him 
and perhaps I may be able to learn something of inter- 
est about this patient. Perhaps, also, I may be able 
to indirectly suggest something.” 

“ Oh, Philip, how nice of you ! You think of every- 
thing, and nothing is too much for you to do.” 

“ Hush ! do not speak that way,” he answers, gently. 
“ Ought I not, indeed, to be glad to undertake any- 
thing that may be of good to you ! With regard to 
this Mrs. Ward, you asked me yesterday to do some- 
thing which I knew was injudicious and for that rea- 
son, hard as it came to me to deny you anything, I 
refused. You surely realize, though, that in all else I 
am entirely at the disposal of you and yours.” 

“ I know, love ; and — forgive me for having asked 
you that ! ” 

“There is nothing to forgive. In your-place, and 
thinking as you did, I should have mado the same 
request, just as in my place, and believing as I 
believed, you would have done as I did.” 

“ Rely upon it, dearest,” she answers, with sweet 
tenderness, “ that I have never — no, not for an instant 
—had for you one thought of blame. I know you 
acted as you thought your self-respect and dignity 
demanded you should act. That alone is justification 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


201 


enough ! It is just because you are so cold and high 
and proud that I love you so dearly.” 

“You are sure, then, that you do not blame me in 
regard to this Mrs. Ward?” 

“No; most assuredly, no. I realize what a due 
regard for professional dignity exacts, and understand 
your position fully.” 

“ I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear you say 
that, ’ he replies, rising, “ It is one of the greatest 
pleasures of life, I find, to be really understood.” 

“You are going? ” she asks. 

“Yes; I must make arrangements so as to see 
Dr. Taylor to-night.” 

“ Ah ! ” she rejoins, with feeling, “ on that errand, I 
know that it is not right to selfishly detain you.” 

After leaving Agnes, Henson goes uptown to the 
Windsor Hotel, where he knows Dr. Babcock Tay- 
lor is to be found at a certain hour almost any even- 
ing in the week. The doctor, who is what is popu- 
larly known as a “ fashionable ladies’ doctor,” is also 
quite a dabbler in stocks and is in the habit of fre- 
quenting the Windsor at the time when the brokers 
congregate there, in the hope of securing desirable 
information in relation to investments. 

Henson has not been many minutes in the Windsor 
when, near the entrance to the cafe, he espies the 
person of whom he is in search. Dr. Babcock Taylor 
is a large man, somewhat past the middle age ; with 
massive shoulders, well thrown back; a well-developed 
abdominal region ; iron gray hair, with a tendency to 
curl ; and a florid face, fringed with white “ mutton- 
chop ” side whiskers. Important, imposing and sol- 
emn is Dr. Babcock Taylor. In conversation, he is 


202 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


deliberate and slow, carefully weighing and selecting 
his words, as a man who realizes the grave importance 
of his every utterance. As he talks, he inflates his 
chest and throws back his head, and waves majesti- 
cally with a very fat and very white little hand to give 
emphasis to his words. Just the man, in fact, to 
impress the ladies favorably as to his professional 
desirability — alike eminently imposing and ornamental 
for my lady’s sick chamber, or my lady’s big dinner 
party. 

Dr. Taylor greets Henson with much amiability. 
Henson’s growing reputation, as also rumors as to the 
important character of his experiments, have reached 
him vaguely — that is, through the medium of his 
daily newspaper, for he devotes little time to current 
medical literature, in the attempt to keep up with the 
professional progress of the day. In spite of the high 
esteem in which he holds himself, he is not without a 
dim realization of the fact that physicians of his own 
generation, who have won great names in the profes- 
sion, do not treat him with quite that distinguished 
consideration he could desire. Hence, a young doc- 
tor who seems likely to make a big name for himself, 
is a man to be cultivated ; it may prove useful later 
on to be able to refer to “ my eminent friend and col- 
league, Dr. Henson.” 

It is, Henson ascertains, from an affection of the 
anterior column of the spinal cord, affecting the dor- 
sal nerves and to a certain degree the great sacral 
plexus, that Mrs. Ward is suffering. There has been a 
certain improvement observable in the patient’s con- 
dition of late. Dr. Taylor goes on to declare, and under 
his treatment he anticipates still further favorable 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 203 

progress in the near future. He then proceeds to 
detail, with much prolixity the nature of this treat- 
ment he has adopted and to dilate upon the great 
results he expects to accomplish. 

Henson has soon learned all he wants to know and 
as quickly as he finds it practicable, makes his escape. 
As he passes down the steps of the hotel, he smiles 
grimly. If, he thinks, Mrs. Ward’s recovery depends 
upon this old twac^dler, especially under the form of 
treatment he has outlined, there is scant prospect, 
indeed, of her presence in the court-room on the day 
of the trial. 

From the Windsor, he walks over to Sixth Avenue 
and goes into the first barber shop he finds open. 

‘‘ Trim your beard, sir? ” 

“ No ; shave it off.” 

“ What—! ” 

I said shave it off.” 

As the barber tucks the apron under his chin and 
adjusts the towels, he eyes,.with that inquisitiveness 
peculiar to barbers as a class, this beard which is about 
to be sacrificed. It is evident that it is not every day 
that a beard of these goodly dimensions is offered up 
for annihilation. As he notes the interest which he 
has awakened, Henson congratulates himself upon the 
precaution taken in avoiding his own barber, who 
would doubtless have made out of this incident a pro- 
lific theme of gossip. As he meditates thus, the bar- 
ber’s shears click amid the masses of his beard and the 
work of demolition has begun. The razor completes 
the work of the shears, and the shaving is followed by 
a close cropping of the hair of the head. 

From the barber shop Henson proceeds to Broad- 


204 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


way, where he feels confident of coming across some- 
body to whom he is known. He is eager to put to the 
test how great a change in his personal appearance 
this loss of hair and beard has effected. Near Thir- 
tieth Street he meets two persons in quick succes- 
sion, both of whom know him fairly well. He passes 
them, without either making any sign of recognition. 
Hurrying after them, he gets some little distance 
ahead, and then returning contrives this time to 
almost run into them. Still no recognition, and he is 
delighted. When, however, in the full glare of the 
Hoffman House lights, he walks by within a few feet 
of Halford, and the latter, although looking straight at 
him, lets him pass without the faintest greeting, he 
wends his way homeward highly elated. 


CHAPTER yi. 

Several days pass without any noteworthy change 
in Mrs. Ward’s condition. One day she is better ; the 
next, again, not quite so well. At the end of a week, 
however, a decided improvement sets in. Four days 
later, Agnes enthusiastically announces to Henson that 
the patient is on her feet ; she has that day risen from 
her bed. True, she has not been able to go down 
stairs, or even to leave her room ; still, she is out of 
bed and that is certainly a good deal. The trial is yet 
five weeks off and, between this and then, she will have 
time to materially gain strength. It looks pretty cer- 
tain, now, that she will attend the court-room. 

Henson listens attentively. Although he takes 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


205 


good care not to say so to Agnes, he does not by any 
means feel so sure of this convalescent’s appearance at 
the trial. He knows by experience how subject pa- 
tients of this class are to sudden spurts of improve- 
ment and to equally sudden sets-back ; between this 
and the trial many important changes may intervene 
and it is needless to worry himself about the matter 
yet. In spite of these reflections, however, when he 
thinks of even the bare possibility of Mrs. Ward’s 
presence in court and of coming face to face with her 
there, he invariably experiences sharp, twinges of 
apprehension. 

This state of doubt and Agnes’s period of congratula- 
tion are of short duration. In another four days, a 
stress of unusally cold weather sets in and Mrs. Ward 
does not feel nearly so well. On the fifth day, she is 
much worse and twenty-four hours later, Agnes tear- 
fully- reports a decided relapse; the patient has been 
obliged to again take to her bed. 

Henson is touched at the sight of Agnes’s grief, but 
he cannot help feeling an immense sense of relief at 
the prospect of not having to face Mrs. Ward in court. 
After all, he thinks, it is for the best! Mrs. Ward’s 
evidence can still be given by deposition, and on its 
strength Will Denton will undoubtedly be acquitted. 
The sensational surprise aimed at by Mr. Duncan 
will, to be sure, lack somewhat of the dramatic inten- 
sity planned and that gentleman will doubtless be pro- 
portionately disappointed, but Henson cares little about 
any disappointments Mr. Duncan may suffer on this 
ground. Will Denton will be acquitted just the same, 
and that is all he cares about. 

The days go by and every evening Agnes makes the 


2o6 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


same hopeless report : There is no change ; the patient 
is no better. Henson consoles her as best he can. 
The intensely cold weather and bitter north winds 
which prevail, he points out, are decidedly against the 
patient ; with the setting in of a little milder weather, 
she will probably show a rapid improvement. Agnes 
finds small consolation in this merely problematical 
prospect of improvement ; she has an unbounded lack 
of confidence in Dr. Babcock Taylor’s ability to prop- 
erly cope with this case and daily she becomes more 
set in the idea that the only hope of restoring Mrs. 
Ward’s strength in time for the trial lies in the aid of 
some other physician. 

A full week has gone by since the relapse set in, 
when one afternoon Agnes unexpectedly calls upon 
Henson. At a glance, he sees she brings some big 
news — news with which she is evidently greatly 
pleased. 

“ Mrs. Ward is up again?” he asks, quickly. 

‘‘No.” 

“ I thought, perhaps, she was ; you look so glad.” 

“Glad! I am wild with joy. Mrs. Ward wants to 
consult you.” 

He seizes her by the arms, his muscles quivering 
under the violence of his emotion. 

“ You have done this — you, you ! ” 

She stares at him, breathless, overwhelmed. 

“ You, YOU ! ” he repeats, with rising fury. 

“ At least listen to what I have to say, Philip,” she 
gasps, dumfounded. “ You will find that I have cer- 
tainly done nothing to compromise you professionally. ” 

Compromise him professionally ! Much, indeed, 
this question is troubling him now. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


207 


“ I do not care to listen,” he' cries, drawing back 
from her. “ I simply tell you, I shall not go.” 

“ Oh, do not say that.” 

“ I do say it and I mean it.” 

“ Philip ! ” 

The blood is rising every instant more and more to 
his head and driving him mad. 

“ Nothing shall induce me to go,” he continues, 
thoroughly beyond himself. “You have disposed of 
me in this matter without the slightest reference to 
my expressed wishes, without the least regard for my 
self-respect. And you — you pretend to love me ! ” 

She stands there, listening with bowed head ; sorely 
wounded and amazed. For a moihent her voice fails 
her, but this allusion to her love, touching her to the 
quick, acts as a spur. 

“ Say to me what you will, Philip,” she exclaims ; 
“ reproach me as much as your anger may impel you 
to and I will not rebel, for I realize that it is only 
anger that speaks, and that I must deeply, although 
unknowingly, have wronged you to have incensed you 
so greatly against me. I feel, though, that you cannot 
really mean what you say, for you know — you cannot 
help knowing — that never was a man more truly loved, 
respected, worshipped than are you, and that never, 
not even to save my brother, would I have wilfully 
injured your interests or wounded your se*lf-respect.” 

“ You have done both,” he cries, harshly. 

Her lips move piteously. She is evidently much 
wounded, deeply pained. 

“ Won’t you at least hear me,” she replies. “ Won’t 
you listen and, perhaps, you may hnd that I have not 
done so deeply wrong as you may think.” 


2o8 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ I can never forgive you.” 

“Why, Philip; you* must be losing your reason! 
What can be the matter; where lies this great wrong? 
I do not understand.” 

I do not understand ! These words do more toward 
calming the fury raging within him than all her pre- 
vious pleading. He must be losing his reason, she 
declares ; she cannot understand him. True enough, 
indeed ! Why, he must be stark mad to give way to 
this wild outburst and utter such words as he has 
spoken. Nothing that she has done can reasonably 
justify such anger as this. It must, indeed, all seem 
very strange and incomprehensible. This will never 
do ! There must be nothing that is strange and 
incomprehensible about him. 

With a powerful effort, he masters his feelings and 
faces the emergency. 

“ Losing my reason ! ” he cries, still maintaining 
his threatening mien and angry voice, but thoroughly 
master now both of his actions and his words ; “ is it 
not, I ask you, enough to make a man lose his reason 
to find the woman he loves persisting, with blind 
obstinacy, in degrading herself and lowering him 1 ” 

“ Degrading myself and lowering you ! Whatever 
can you mean, Philip ? ” 

“ Have I not frequently warned you,” he continues, 
carefully keeping his voice at its former angry pitph, 
“ not to bring me forward in the case of this Mrs. 
Ward ? Can you not realize, with the relations exist- 
ing between us, how indelicate it must seem to ethers 
your thrusting me forward in this case? You ought 
surely to have learned by this time what mean rival- 
ries and contemptible jealousies exist in this profes- 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


209 


sion, and what malicious accusations are set on foot 
upon the slightest provocation ! For all I know, it 
may at this* moment be whispered around among 
rivals whom I have outstripped that through you I 
am touting to secure a rich patient and an accompany- 
ing fat fee. How can I calmly see you persisting in 
exposing yourself to comment such as this! Nor is 
this all. Do you think I care to see the woman who 
is one day to be my wife humbling herself and me 
before this Mrs. Ward by soliciting her to patronize 
me and employ my professional services? Is it not 
enough !o madden any man to think of these things ? 
What must Mrs. Ward think of you — of me ! ” 

All this is delivered with an excited intonation, in 
keeping with his first utterances. Agnes hears him to 
the end, her face brightening: 

“Just as I thought!” she exclaims, as he ceases 
speaking; “you have altogether mistaken what has 
taken place. Nothing has happened, you poor dear, 
at all like what you imagine, as you will find when 
you hear my explanation. If it had, I could not 
blame you for being very angry.” 

“ I do not so much care about myself,” he cries, 
with impassioned gesture; “although I admit that I 
do not like to be exposed to even a suspicion o"f 
resorting to contemptible practices only too lamentably 
common in my profession ; I do not, I repeat, care so 
much about myself; but to see you, in the face of all 
my warnings, persist in figuring in a light utterly 
unworthy of you— ah, it puts me beyond myself! ” 

“ My own, proud darling, believe me, I have not 
done as you fear.” 

“ Not wittingly, I know, but you do hot realize all 


210 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


the maliciousness of the world and the base miscon- 
structions of which it is capable.” 

Hear my^explanation.” 

“ Well, well ; what is this explanation ? ” 

“ In the first place, Mrs. Ward knows nothing of 
the relations existing between us ; I have never spoken 
to her of them, for I consider it decidedly bad taste to 
touch upon such matters before persons whom they 
cannot possibly concern. Again, I have never sug- 
gested to Mrs. Ward that she should call you in con- 
sultation.” 

“ Ah, you have not done that ? ” 

“ No. Of course, as you can readily understand, I 
have since the relapse been exceedingly anxious that 
Mrs. Ward should not trust alone to the advice of 
Dr. Taylor, but should in addition have the advice of 
some other doctor — ” 

“ Who should be me ! ” 

“You, or any one in whose skill reliance might be 
placed; I mentioned no name. You cannot think 
that I was capable of such a blunder as to coarsely 
thrust you forward? You must surely credit me with 
enough good sense and understanding of what your 
position demands not to expose you to anything like 
that.” 

“ Hum ! it begins to look as if, after all, I have been 
mistaken.” 

“ Besides, it would have been a very poor way to 
carry my point with a woman like Mrs. Ward. My 
idea was simply this : I believed that if another doc- 
tor, with more skill than I thought Dr. Taylor 
possessed, were called in, there would be a better 
chance of Mrs. Ward’s being brought around in time 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 21 1 

for the trial. To carry my point I exerted, I will 
admit it, every device. Can you blame me ? Remem- 
ber, I had my brother’s future, possibly his life, at 
stake. At first, I found Mrs. Ward much opposed to 
my plan. Why call in another doctor? she con- 
tended. When she was first taken ill, she had had the 
advice of a number of physicians, who had not 
seemed able to do any more for her than had 
Dr. Taylor. He was an old friend of the family ; she 
had known him fora number of years; she did not 
like to do anything that might be construed as im- 
plying a lack. of confidence in his skill. He had 
promised that she would be able to get up before long, 
and she herself felt confident of an improvement as 
soon as the weather set in a little more favorably. 
As for getting to court, she was firmly determined to 
go there and I might rely upon her to manage it some 
way.” 

“ She is as determined as all that ? ” 

“Yes. She has a very keen sense of justice. I 
think she would regard herself as guilty of a most 
wrongful act if she wilfully failed to give her testi- 
mony in behalf of a person whom she knew to be 
innocent ; if such a person were condemned, she would 
hold herself responsible for his fate. In fact, she has 
very decided views on this subject. Under any cir- 
cumstances, then, it looked as if we might be pretty 
hopeful of having her present in court, but I wanted 
more than this. I wanted to have her as strong and 
well as it was possible to get her; for, after what I 
had heard from you, it seemed to me the less 
debilitated she looked, the stronger and less open to 
dispute her testimony would be. This made me per- 


212 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


sist in my efforts to have another medical opinion. 
As I have already told you, Mrs. Ward has grown to 
take a great interest in me, and treats me with the 
utmost friendliness. Taking advantage of this friendly' 
interest, I felt that I could push my point without 
danger of offending her, and I did so — delicately and 
judiciously, of course, and without ever mention- 
ing your name, or bringing you forward in any 
way.” 

“ How, then, was it she came to select me ? ” 

“You shall hear, and then you. can judge if I have 
done anything deserving blame. In conversation with 
Mrs. Ward one day, I spoke of mamma’s case and, 
still without mentioning your name, knowing how 
sensitive you are on this subject, described how very 
satisfactory the recovery from her illness had been. 
As youiknow, there are certain points of similarity be- 
tween Mrs. Ward’s case and mamma’s and, very natur- 
ally, Mrs. Ward was interested. While speaking on 
this subject, I happened to refer to the fact that the 
physician — still no mention of your name — who had 
saved mamma had written a very clever treatise on the 
subject of paralysis.” 

“You admit you did that! You think that was 
right ? ” 

“ Right ! I do not see, Philip, how you can question 
it. What could be more natural and proper than that 
a daughter should refer with interest to something 
written by the physician who had saved her mother’s 
life, or even that she should evince gratitude and 
friendly feeling toward that physician.” 

“ Well ; what happened next ? ” 

Mrs. Ward asked me if I had this treatise, and when 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


213 


I said yes, she remarked that she would much like to 
see it. The next time I called I brought it to her, 
and when I saw her on the following day she immedi- 
ately referred to it. She said that she had read the 
work with a great deal of interest ; that the writer had 
treated the subject with unusual clearness and dis- 
cernment, and his opinions appeared to her decidedly 
striking and new. It was then that your name was 
mentioned for the first time.” 

“You see, you did bring my name forward.” 

“ No ; it was Mrs. Ward who first mentioned it. 
After referring in this flattering way to your treatise, 
she went on to say that here was /"a physician she 
would really feel interested in consulting. I simply 
observed that you had certainly cured mamma, and 
very naturally I did not seek in any way to oppose her 
favorable views. You would scarcely, I imagine, have 
had me do that ! ” 

“ No, I suppose not. I shall not go, though, in 
any case. I will not consent to displace the physician 
who has been attending her all along.” 

“You are not asked to displace him ; you are simply 
called in consultation with him. Moreover, you will 
find no opposition from Mrs. Ward’s regular attend- 
ant ; on the contrary, Mrs. Ward has consulted him on 
the subject and, far from offering any opposition, he 
fully indorsed what was proposed.” 

“ I can hardly believe that of Babcock Taylor ! ” 

“Well, it is just as I say; the moment Mrs. Ward 
broached the subject of a consultation with you, he at 
once joined in the idea with the best of grace, and 
said that you were one of the rising lights in the pro- 
fession and that she could not have a more valuable 


214 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


opinion. Those were the exact words he used, as 
reported to me by Mrs. Ward.” 

“ What do I care for the opinion of that old 
idiot ! ” 

“ I thought you said he was quite a clever doctor in 
cases of paralysis ? ” 

“ An old noodle ! ” 

‘ In any case, he seems to have been bright enough 
to form a sound judgment as to your ability and 
skill.” 

“ I don’t care ; I shall not go.” 

“ Not go ! What reason can you have for refusing, 
when Mrs. Ward’s own physician calls you in consulta- 
tion ? ” 

“ He has not done so.” 

“ But he will. Do not be afraid, everything is to 
be done with due regard to the proper forms. Mrs. 
Ward has requested Dr. Taylor to make the necessary 
arrangements.” 

“ She has asked him to do that ? ” 

“Yes.” 

Here, then, is the end of it ; escape is no longer pos- 
sible. Agnes, he might put off ; but summoned to a 
consultation in the regular way by a respectable prac- 
titioner, there is no getting out of that ! What 
ground could there be for refusing? Even if he 
found some pretext for absenting himself from the 
city, Mrs. Ward would probably wait until his return. 
Do what he will, he seems compelled by an irresistible 
pressure of coincidences to meet this woman, either as 
a physician called in consultation, or as a witness in 
the halls of justice. To avoid this meeting seems 
impossible, and to seek to avoid it longer is only too 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


215 


likely to give rise to suspicion, and suspicion he must 
not invite at any cost. 

He remains silent before Agnes, rapidly turning 
over these thoughts in his mind. Before he can 
decide upon any definite course, there is a ring of the 
outer bell and, a moment later, his servant comes to 
him with a card. 

He glances at it, and reads the name of Dr. Bab- 
cock Taylor. The decisive moment is, then, already 
here. 

“ Is it a patient ? ” asks Agnes. “ Shall I go ? ” 

“ It is Dr. Taylor.” 

“ Oh, I would so like to stay until after he has 
seen you. May I wait in another room ? ” 

“Very well.” 

He directs his servant to show in the visitor, and at 
the same time Agnes slips quietly into a small adjoin- 
ing room. 

Dr. Taylor greets him with even more effusiveness 
than on the occasion of their recent meeting at the 
Windsor. In his manner there is a curious blending 
of pomposity, friendliness and patronage. 

“ Since I saw you last,” he exclaims, “ I have been 
thinking of you, my dear young friend, and several 
times it occurred to me that I might advantageously 
associate you as consulting physician in some of the 
important cases in my practice. I took all the more 
kindly to this idea as, from the very first time we 
met, as you may have perhaps observed, I have been 
mbst favorably impressed. From the start, I said to 
myself, ‘Now, here is a young man who is going to 
make his mark ! ' You remember, eh ? ” 

Yes, Henson well remembers the occasion of their 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


.216 

first meeting. One of Babcock Taylor's wealthy pa- 
tients, living at a short distance from Henson, had 
been seized with a fit and the first physician obtaina- 
ble in the neighborhood, who happened to be Henson, 
had been hastily summoned. Well Henson remem- 
bers the manner in which he was treated when at last 
the great Dr. Babcock Taylor put in his appearance 
on the scene. It would be difficult to conceive 
greater haughtiness and superciliousness and arrogance 
than this pompous old humbug displayed toward 
him upon that occasion. At that time, though, the 
‘‘ dear young friend” was lost in the mob of strug- 
gling and unknown young sawbones, with every pros- 
pect that he would continue to remain so ; things 
were different, now, when this same “ dear young 
friend ” was beginning to be quoted as an authority, 
and there was no telling how far he might go. 

“Yes, I have been thinking of you a good deal,” 
continues Dr. Babcock Taylor; “and the other day, 
when the question arose of a consultation in the case 
of one of my most important patients, I at once pro- 
posed your name.” 

“ Who is this patient ? ” 

“ Mrs. Ward, of whom I was speaking to you some 
time ago. Since then, I have achieved most satisfac- 
tory results in her case, as you will remember I pre- 
dicted. I have had her up and about, in fact ; but 
recently an unexpected relapse has set in. Under 
these conditions, I advised the seeking of your opin- 
ion.’’ 

Henson somewhat stiffly bows his acknowledg- 
ments. 

“ Let me add that I am glad of this opportunity 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


217 


which has presented itself of evincing my friendly 
interest, and I trust this may be the beginning of 
other cases in which we shall be associated. As to 
Mrs. Ward, what day shall we select?” 

As Henson hesitates, Dr. Babcock Taylor makes a 
suggestion : 

“ She is of an impatient disposition,” he remarks. 
“ Suppose we say to-morrow ? ” ^ 

Hesitation is no longer possible ; Henson is forced 
to an answer. 

“ To-morrow will do,” he replies. 

“Very well; it is agreed. To-morrow — at what 
hour?” 

Before answering, Henson goes to his table and con- 
sults his visiting book. This action seems decidedly 
amusing to Dr. Babcock Taylor. Does his young 
friend imagine, he thinks to himself, that he can create 
an impression that his time is so closely taken up with 
patients that he has to carefully select an hour when 
he will be free ? Well enough to work off these little 
Vicks of the trade on ingenuous patients, but to try 
them on old stagers in the profession — pshaw ! 

Any such idea as this which has presented itself to 
Babcock Taylor’s mind is, however, far from Hen- 
son’s thoughts. Pose before this old fossil and seek 
to impress him ; much, indeed, he cares to do that ! 
On the cover of his visiting book is a calendar and 
this calendar gives the time of the rising and the set- 
ting of the sun. It is the precise time at which the 
sun will set to-morrow that he is after. It is a very 
desirable point that he should arrive at Mrs. Ward’s 
just late enough for the daylight to be not at its best, 
and yet not so late as to find lights in use. 


2I8 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ Let US say half-past four,” he declares, throwing 
down the book. “ Where shall we meet ?” 

“ My house is not far from the patient. Suppose 
we meet there ? ” 

“ Agreed.” 

“ Let me ask you,” remarks Dr. Taylor, “ to kindly 
be very punctual. I have an engagement to dine at 
the Windsor to-morrow night and I don’t want to find 
myself late.” 

Nothing could suit Henson better. This arrange- 
ment will not only tend to assure their reaching Mrs. 
Ward’s house as near as possible to the time he has 
selected, but is likely also to assist in his getting away 
before the lights appear. He very emphatically prom- 
ises that his punctuality may be relied upon. 

As soon as Dr. Taylor is gone, he goes to Agnes, 
waiting in the adjoining room. 

“ Consultation is set for to-morrow, at half-past four, 
at Mrs. Ward’s.” 

She runs into his arms. 

‘‘Oh, I am so glad !” she murmurs, her head nest^- 
ling on his breast; “and,” with lovingly upturned 
face, “ tell me, darling — you are not angry with me 
now ?” 


CHAPTER VII. 

It is not without uneasiness that Henson sees the 
day slip by. Certain experiments which he is con- 
ducting demand an attention which cannot be delayed, 
and he applies himself to his work with his customary 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


219 


determination and energy. Every now and then, 
however, he finds himself watching the clock on his 
mantelpiece and noting the progress of time. 

At intervals it seems to him that the day is going 
by with fearful rapidity ; at other^ intervals, again, the 
hands of the clock seem to be hardly moving at all. 

This condition of excitement under which he feels 
he is laboring causes him much anxiety. Never 
before in his life, he realizes, has he more needed to 
be calm, collected, and in control of all his resources. 
What he to-day needs is the cold self-possession of the 
surgeon about to undertake a great operation ; the 
steady decision of a general about to deliver battle : 
and self-possession and steady decision, he well knows, 
do not belong to the nervous and the agitated. 

Will he survive this danger ? 

The question presents itself to him again and again 
and will not be put aside, although he fully realizes 
the uselessness of seeking any satisfactory answer. 
How can such a question be subject to calculation, 
when so much depends upon unknown chances and so 
little upon anything he may attempt, or do. Humiliat- 
ing as the confession may be, he is forced to admit that 
at this point events have so shaped themselves that he 
is utterly powerless to exert any influence upon their 
course ; everything is solely and entirely under the 
wanton guidance of chance. Really, Halford’s theory 
as to man’s being at the mercy of chance happening 
presents a very strong front at times. 

He has little place, though, in his thoughts just now 
for deliberations of this character. That other ques- 
tion keeps forcing itself upon him, thrusting aside 
all other considerations : 


220 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Will she know him again ? 

He walks over to the fireplace and looks at himself 
in the large glass over the mantel. 

To how great an extent has he succeeded in render- 
ing himself unrecognizable? Everything hinges on 
this ! 

Carefully he studies the features and outlines of his 
face. At moments it strikes him that the change 
effected by the loss of hair and beard is very radical ; 
then, again, in other poses of the face, it seems to him 
that the change is, perhaps, not so great after all. 
Upon the whole, however, he is fairly well satisfied. 
Ah, if he only did not have those widely-opened eyes 
of that peculiar pale blue, such as one comes across in 
portraits of the old time Norsemen ; those eyes 
with that strange steely flash — then he would feel 
much safer ! 

From time to time during the day he anxiously 
watches the sky. Much depends for him upon the 
day being neither too clear, nor too overcast. If it be 
too clear, Mrs. Ward will be enabled to see too well ; 
if, on the other hand, it be too gloomy, the lights are 
likely to be brought into use earlier than will suit his 
plans. In the morning, the sky looks decidedly heavy 
and he regrets that the consultation is not set for 
earlier in the day. If it keeps on this way, it will cer- 
tainly be dusk when he gets to Mrs. Ward’s, and he 
will meet her under an artificial light ; probably, as she 
is an invalid, that of a lamp— the most dangerous of 
all lights for him, as it was under that light that he 
was seen. 

As the afternoon advances, however, the clouds 
clear away and the day becomes brighter. It is now 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


22 


just the kind of sky he wants ; neither too much* light, 
nor too little. He notes, too, with satisfaction that as 
the hour of danger approaches his nerves become stead- 
ier and that he feels more thoroughly master of the 
full strength of his faculties and the full power of his 
will. 

Sharp at the time appointed, he presents himself at 
Babcock Taylor’s house and the two set out together 
for Mrs. Ward’s. In response to Dr. Taylor’s loud and 
imperious ring, the door is opened by a neat maid- 
servant and they step into a hall whose carpet is cov- 
ered here and there with strips of holland and in which 
two paper-hangers are at work. 

“Everything is in confusion in the lower part of the 
house,” explains Babcock Taylor. “ Some pipes burst 
the other day in consequence of the late terrific frost 
and did no end of mischief. The workmen are in 
possession here ; we shall have to take off our overcoats 
upstairs.” 

Preceded by the servant, they walk up two flights 
and then, as the maid steps aside. Dr. Taylor knocks 
lightly on a door almost facing the stairs. “ Come in,” 
replies a woman’s voice, in clear, steady tones. 

The supreme moment has come. The light is all he 
could desire ; just bright enough not to make lights 
necessary. What will this woman’s first glance 
reveal ? 

With Taylor leading the way, they enter the room. 

“ My colleague. Dr. Henson,” announces Taylor, 
stepping forward to press Mrs. Ward’s hand. 

She is lying upon a large invalid’s couch, which is 
drawn well out from the wall, the patient having 
doubtless foreseen with an old invalid’s experience 


222 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

that her doctors will want to move around her on 
every side. 

Taking advantage of this arrangement, Henson at 
once passes over to the further side of the couch, so 
that his back is to the windows and his face, conse- 
quently, in the shadow. This movement he executes 
quietly and naturally, as if he merely took up his posi- 
tion on that side because Dr. Taylor was on the other. 

The examination begins under the direction of 
Henson, who puts his questions with a conciseness 
and precision that awaken Babcock Taylor’s admira- 
tion. The dear young friend, he is delighted to find, 
does not waste time with useless interrogations, or by 
going into needless details ; he proceeds, on the con- 
trary, straight to the point. As the replies of Mrs. 
Ward are almost as concise as the questions of Hen- 
son, he congratulates himself that the visit will not be 
unduly protracted and that he will have plenty of time 
to dress for the uptown dinner. He understands his 
subject, too, does this same young friend ; there can 
be no question as to that ! 

“You suffer much from headaches?” asks Henson, 
pursuing his investigations. 

“ A good deal, at times.” 

“ Pain mostly low down in the back of the head ? ” 

“ That is it, exactly.” 

“ Have you ever tried applications of cold water on 
the nape of the neck ? ” 

“Yes, and they always’brought me relief from my 
pains; but I could not continue this treatment be- 
cause it superinduced chills.” 

“ I think we can overcome that.” 

“Not without difficulty, I am afraid you will find, 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


223 


Doctor. I suffer intensely from cold, to which I have 
always been acutely sensitive. All my life I have 
been subject to catching cold upon the slightest prov- 
ocation. At night I always sleep better if I take 
some warm drink before preparing for rest.” 

“ Abnormal sensitiveness to cold is by no means an 
uncommon feature in cases of this kind,” remarks 
Babcock Taylor, who finds that Henson is allowing 
the patient to dwell a little too long on this subject. 
“ There ought to be no difficulty here in keeping the 
temperature at a desirable point.” 

“No,” answers Mrs. Ward, “and I certainly take 
every precaution to avoid drafts. As you see, I have 
double portieres on the doors, and the windows I have 
had doubly curtained.” 

As she speaks, she motions toward the windows of 
the room. Henson, however, takes good care not to 
turn and thus expose his face more fully to the light, 
but simply looks toward the door in front of him. 

A few more questions, and Henson has apparently 
learned all that is necessary to know. He makes a 
short physical examination, bending over the bed, but 
not walking around it. Babcock Taylor inquires as to 
whether he can see well enough ; shall he ring for the 
lights ? 

Henson apparently hesitates an instant before reply- 
ing. No, it is unnecessary; he prefers the natural 
light. 

Having finished with the patient, they step into an 
adjoining room to hold their consultation. It is not a 
long one. Both have their reasons for being brief ; 
Henson for fear of the lights, Babcock Taylor on 
account of his dinner. Diagnosis, advice, treatment 


224 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


are quickly decided upon ; Henson suggesting and 
Babcock Taylor fully coinciding. 

That’s it ; just my idea ! ” he repeats, approvingly, 
at intervals. 

Having briefly touched upon all the details of the 
case, and Babcock Taylor not presenting any further 
points for discussion, Henson soon brings his sugges- 
tions to an end. 

“ Let us return,” exclaims Babcock Taylor, glancing 
rapidly at his watch. 

Henson, who has kept his eyes on the window, at 
once assents. There is still just enough day not to 
make the lights necessary yet. 

When, however, Babcock Taylor opens the door of 
the patient’s room, a bright flood of light streams out 
toward them and, looking in, Henson perceives a 
lamp with a shade on the table beside Mrs. Ward. 
During their brief absence a servant has evidently 
entered with the light. 

What is to be done — make his escape, or face this 
risk? Absurd question ! What can he do but face 
it. He enters. 

“ Well, Mrs. Ward,” exclaims Babcock Taylor, who 
feels that it is high time he came a little to the front, 
“ we have decided upon a somewhat new line of treat- 
ment.” 

This new line of treatment he then goes on to out- 
line, Mrs. Ward, however, not appearing to be listen- 
ing with very close attention to his words. Her eyes 
are turned toward Henson, who stands now near the 
head of the bed, so as to keep his face as much as 
possible in the shade. 

Babcock Taylor, who is listening with pleasure to 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


225 


the flow of his own well rounded sentences, notices 
nothing; but Henson, keenly on the alert, quickly 
observes the patient’s evident effort to peer into his 
face. Fortunately for him, it is Babcock Taylor who 
is talking, for he feels that he could not count at this 
moment upon the steadiness of his voice. 

Suddenly, just as Babcock Taylor is coming to a 
close, Mrs. Ward stretches out her hand to the table. 
Grasping the shade on one side, she presses it sharply 
down so that it forms a reflector, and at the same 
instant Henson receives a flood of light full in the 
face. 

^^A—a—h!" 

Mrs. Ward utters a sharp cry and drops the shade. 

Babcock Taylor stops short and looks in astonish- 
ment from Mrs. Ward to Henson and from Henson to 
Mrs. Ward. 

“ You are in pain ? ” he asks. 

“ Not at* all.” 

What can be the matter with her, then ? Babcock 
Taylor, however, rarely stops to ask questions about 
anything he does not understand ; he prefers to him- 
self supply solutions from his own limitless fund of 
wisdom. 

• Ah, I have it ! ” he exclaims, with a smile of tri- 
umph, “ you are surprised at the somewhat youthful 
appearance of my colleague. It is a fact, he does at 
present look quite young for one who has already 
attained such standing in the medical profession. It 
is his own fault, though. Whatever induced him to 
shave off the big blond beard he used to wear! ” 

If the light were still on his face, Mrs. Ward would 
see Henson change color and his lips tremble. 


226 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“Yes,” continues Babcock Taylor, “he looked far 
more striking and, I may say, picturesque that way — 
quite a head of one of the ancient Gauls. I don’t see 
whatever led him to make the change.” 

Neither Henson nor Mrs. Ward make any reply and 
Babcock Taylor, remembering at that instant his din- 
ner, makes a motion to leave. 

Henson bows and is about to move toward the 
door. With a gesture, Mrs. Ward stops him : 

“Were you,” she asks, slowly, “ever acquainted 
with that unfortunate man, Bronk, who was murdered 
some time ago ? ” 

Grave as is the admission, Henson cannot avoid it. 

“Yes, I knew of him,” he answei's, with as much 
indifference as he can assume. 

“Did you ever go to him over there?” she asks, 
with a motion of her hand toward the window. 

“ I happened to be called in after the body was 
found.” 

Babcock Taylor, his mind still on his dinner, hastily 
breaks in upon this seemingly idle talk. 

“Good-bye, Mrs. Ward, good-bye!” he exclaims. 
“I hope you will rest well to-night. You must take 
care of yourself, and try to get plenty of sleep, you 
know. I shall not see you again until Friday. I take 
the early morning train for Albany, and shall be out 
of town all day to-morrow.” 

With Babcock Taylor’s last word, Henson again 
bows and, an instant later, both are out of the room. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


227 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Did you notice how I cut her short?” inquires 
Babcock Taylor, as they reach the street. “ If one 
only stopped to listen to the ladies, about three visits 
would take up a whole day. Bless me, if I understand 
what she can have meant by starting in about that fel- 
low who was murdered ! Do you ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Do you know, I have an idea that she was a good 
deal affected by that affair. Shouldn’t be surprised if 
she was a little bit touched in the head on that sub- 
jectj ” 

Henson rouses himself at these words. Here is an 
idea which it is well to cultivate. 

“ Quite likely,” he answers, carelessly. “ It would 
not astonish me if some day she accused you with 
having made away with Bronk. These hallucinations 
are sometimes very peculiar, very persistent.” 

“ What an idea ! ” exclaims Babcock Taylor, taken 
aback. “ Well, more extraordinary things have hap- 
pened. The more I see of the dear ladies in the 
course of my extensive practice, the more impressed I 
am with the profound sensitiveness of their dear 
natures. Ah, if I only had time, I could relate to you 
a number of most interesting experiences. Unfortu- 
nately, though, I must hurry, if I want to be in good 
season for that dinner. Good-bye.” 

Henson breathes a great sigh of relief. The fates 
be praised, he is at length rid of this dreadful old chat- 
terbox ! At last he is able to think undisturbed, and 
review the ruin that has overtaken him. . 


228 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


Lost ! 

This is the one word which comes to him to define 
his position. Lost ! without any reasonable chance, 
or hope of escape. 

The situation is plain enough. The cry which Mrs. 
Ward uttered when the light streamed over his face, 
showed beyond a question that she recognized in him 
the man she had seen at Bronk’s window. Any last, 
lingering doubt which might have remained in her 
mind had certainly been swept away by the remarks 
of Taylor as to the cutting of his beard, and by the 
answers he himself had been compelled to make to 
the questions she had asked him. The agony of 
doubt was replaced by the horror of certainty; at this 
moment she unquestionably knew him as the man she 
had seen at the window. 

All this he sees and realizes with an overwhelming 
clearness that makes him sick at heart. What he can- 
not so clearly determine, however, is what will be the 
first results of this discovery of Mrs. Ward. From his 
observation of her, he should not judge that she is a 
woman easily shaken in her convictions ; nor is she 
the kind of woman who, under the circumstances, will 
hesitate to speak. To whom, though, will she speak 
first and make her discovery known ; to Taylor, to 
Agnes, or to the police ? 

It is with an infinite sense of relief he reflects that 
Agnes is at this moment still ignorant of all. He 
would give much that she should not be the first, the 
very first, to learn the truth from Mrs. Ward’s lips. 
His whole nature rebels against this. There is a 
means by which he can prevent it, and prevent it he 
will. By going to Agnes, he can so manage that any 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 229 

summons from Mrs. Ward will, at least for this even- 
ing, not be obeyed. 

He turns his steps in the direction of Agnes’s house, 
thinking more of her than of himself. How fearful it 
will be when she knows all ! How will she withstand 
this last, cruel stroke, and what sentiments will she 
entertain toward him. Poor girl! his whole heart 
goes out to her now, on the eve of the sorest hour of 
her trouble. As for himself, he is lost ; he simply 
suffers the penalty of having played his game 
badly, and there must soon be an end to it all. 
But she, so loving and so innocent — what unmerited 
misfortune, what undeserved pain ! 

Perhaps he is going to see her now for the last time ; 
perhaps he has before him one short hour and then — 

A great desire comes over him that this last meet- 
ing, this last hour, shall be a memorable one; that it 
shall leave behind it a recollection of tenderness and 
goodness and love, an hour in which she can think of 
him at his best. Perhaps later on, in the long years to 
come, she may look back to this hour and her heart 
may now and again throb with an impulse of tender- 
ness and pity for him. He has-been abrupt and harsh 
to her in these last days, when, harassed by conflict- 
ing doubts and fears, his nerves have been in a state 
of insurrection, and his manner has doubtless been 
brusque, overbearing, at times, almost brutal. And 
she, with her sweet serenity of disposition and even- 
ness of temper, has ever forborne with him ; whenever 
he has been the most trying and difficult, then it is that 
she has been the most forbearing, most gentle, most 
kind. These unkind words and angry looks of the 
last few days she must be made to forget ; their last 


2 30 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


interview must be the strongest impression left with 
her, and of this last interview she must remember 
naught save that is bright and good. 

After stopping for a few minutes at an establish- 
ment in Broadway, he goes direct to the house, 
where he finds Agnes all aglow with eagerness 
to learn the result of the consultation at Mrs. 
Ward’s. 

“What took place? Tell me all about it !” she 
cries, quickly. 

Holding both her hands in his, he looks into her 
face. 

“Well,” he answers, slowly, “your brother is 
saved.” 

“ Mrs. Ward will be able to go to court?” 

“ I promise you Will is saved.” 

“ It is through you, then ! ” 

“ Yes — through — me.” 

In her joyous excitement, she fails to notice the 
accent with which these words are spoken. 

“You forgive me, then, for all I did?” 

He takes her in his arms, in a long and infinitely 
tender caress. 

“Yes — from the very bottom of my heart.” 

“You see, it was decreed you should go to Mrs. 
Ward’s — in spite of yourself, in spite of all ; and the 
result is that everything has turned out for the best. 
It was really providential ! ” 

“ I am willing to accept it as such, if it only leaves 
you happy,” he answers, with a slight accent of pain in 
his voice. 

This time, something in his tone strikes her 
strangely; she turns her eyes questioningly to his face, 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


231 


wondering if there can have been anything in her 
words to wound him. Before she can speak, however, 
he adroitly turns the subject. 

“ I have a little keepsake' for you here," he says, 
producing a rather large-sized case in blue velvet; 
“ see if you like it." 

She opens the case which he puts into her hands, 
and, lying upon a bed of whitest satin, is a magnificent 
necklace of pearls. 

Agnes gives a little cry of admiration and gazes 
at the stones with all a woman’s enthusiasm : 

“ Oh, how beautiful ! " 

“ You find them so? I am glad of that; for then 
you may, perhaps, wear them sometimes." 

“And you brought these for me ? " she asks, still ex- 
cited. 

“ As a keepsake for you." 

“ Oh, how kind of you, Philip ; but," gazing down, 
blushingly, at the contents of the case, “ you know I do 
not want keepsakes of — of — such value as this to re- 
mind me of your love." 

“ Not one word more," he answers, tenderly, forcing 
her to silence. “ If these stones only please you, and 
you will wear them sometimes, I shall be more than 
happy." 

“ Wear them sometimes ? What a thing to say to 
a woman with such beautiful pearls as these ! " 

“ Pearls," he continues, in a slightly constrained 
voice, “ are, I believe, regarded as the emblems of in- 
nocence. This innocence can certainly not be affected 
by any qualities of the giver." 

She looks at him, evidently puzzled. He does not 
give her time to seek an explanation. 


232 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ Will you not try them on ? ’’ he asks. “ I should so 
like to see you with them.” 

Taking the gems from their case, she clasps them 
about her neck. 

“ The light is not rightly placed in this room, she 
exclaims. “ Let us go into the dining-room ; we 
shall be able to see to better advantage there.” 

In the dining-room, after the necklace has been ad- 
mired at great length by Agnes, they seat themselves 
side by side before the bright coal fire burning in an 
open fireplace. The weather outside is cold and blus- 
tering, and the sighing of the wind and the patter of 
the frozen snow against the windows enhance the 
warmth and comfort of the cozy dining-room with its 
glowing grate. A sense of infinite peace and well- 
being creeps over Henson. 

“ How good it is to be alone together, ” he murmurs ; 
“ away from all worry and trouble ! ” 

He looks at her with a tenderness in his eyes that 
she has never read there before ; with a strength and 
intensity of feeling that influence her to the depths of 
her being. Silently her hand creeps into his, and for 
some time they sit looking into the fire, without either 
speaking. 

Presently, however, as she looks up into his face, she 
sees it clouded with an intense sadness, with an ex- 
pression of deepest dejection and gloom. Wondering 
and much concerned, she asks herself what can this 
mean, this melancholy and depression at a moment 
when all would seem to be joyous and serene. 

“ What a difference,” she exclaims, suddenly break- 
ing the silence and almost unconscioussly giving voice 
to her thoughts ; “ what a difference between now and 


PHILIP PIENSON, M. D. 


233 


the last time we were together in this room — that 
evening last summer, you remember, when we had that 
little supper together. Then, you were weighed down 
with most dreadful difficulties ; the whole success of 
your career seemed threatened ; everything looked as 
black and gloomy as it was possible for it to be. How 
different everything is with you now ! All the difficul- 
ties and troubles of that time have been swept away ; 
success is pouring in on you from every side ; your 
rooms are daily filled with more patients than you care 
to see ; your name has come before the world and 
you are already being pointed out as one of the com- 
ing great scientists of the age. With regard to your 
experiments, what was before conviction has now 
reached certainty, and you are sure of eventually at- 
taining those ends for which you have so long striven. 
Everything is, therefore, bright and rosy before you ; 
you have only to go on straight to the attainment of 
your most cherished ambitions, gathering fresh rewards 
and fresh laurels with every step. What man could 
have a more satisfied present, or a brighter and more 
inviting future ! And yet, dearest, it seems to me you 
do not enjoy the full measure of this happiness that 
should be yours — that your face to-night has a sorrow 
which I cannot understand. What is it, my darling? 
I beg of you, tell me. To whom ought you to 
confide if not to your Agnes who loves you so 
fondly, who worships the very earth upon which you 
tread ! ” 

He looks long into her face before answering, asking 
himself if, after all, it would not be better for the 
peace of his heart, and for her future peace, if he con- 
fessed to her everything. For this, however, strength 


234 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


and courage are alike too weak for the ordeal ; pride 
rises in fierce revolt and seals his lips. 

“ You think I look unhappy?’' he asks, evading the 
point her tender solicitude for him has raised. I do 
not see how this can be, for with you I always ex- 
perience the deepest happiness and content. At this 
moment, I know only a feeling of unbounded tender- 
ness for you, and a profound sentiment of gratitude 
for your love and the happiness it has brought me. 
Whenever in the course of my hard and troubled life 
I have tasted happiness, it has been through you ; 
whatever I have known of joy, sweetness, gentleness, 
and a belief in better things, I have owed to you. If 
I had never met you, I might justly say that my life 
had been the most joyless of lives that could well be 
conceived. Listen, Agnes, my sweet-faced angel of 
mercy. Whatever may happen hereafter remember, 
my own, these words I have spoken to you to-night. 
Sink them deep in your memory and in your heart, so 
that you may bring them back some day when you 
may be called upon to judge me.” 

“ To judge you, I ? ” 

“You love me now, and you only see me with the 
eyes of your priceless love. Later on, perhaps, there 
may come a day when you may seek to weigh me 
more closely in the balance. When that time comes, 
then remember this night.” 

“It has been too happy a night for me to readily 
forget it.” 

“ Such as it is, I pray you to recall it. This life of 
ours is something so ephemeral and fleeting that it is 
a great boon to be able to live over again in memory 
certain hours we can never again know — an hour such 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 235 

as this one, in which I have spoken to you with the 
deepest truth and sincerity of my soul.” 

Agnes listens with strong emotion, powerfully 
affected by the intense earnestness of his words. She 
is little accustomed to hear him speak in such a way. 
Upon such rare occasions in the past when she has 
known him moved to sentiment, he has always re- 
tained a certain self-control and reserve that are part 
of his character and nature. How often when she has 
gone to building airy castles in the world of sentiment 
has he lightly chided her with being of romantic 
bent ; and now, here is he, in turn, affected by this 
same subtle influence and mounting high into the 
romantic realms of ideality and love! 

Great, however, as is her joy in listening to him, 
she cannot repress a certain astonishment and a 
vague uneasiness as to the causes of his being so 
deeply moved. These feelings he reads her too 
closely not to at once detect. 

“You do not know me anymore, I suppose!” he 
remarks, with^ slight smile. “You are asking your- 
self what can have happened to me that I talk this 
way.” 

“ Oh, dearest,” she answers, quickly, with a depre- 
catory movement, “ do not make jest of, or thrust 
aside this sweet sentiment which has brought such 
beautiful words to your lips — words which have im- 
pressed me more deeply than ever before in my life I 
have been impressed. I have been very happy listening 
to you — so happy, that I would like to make 
your gladness as great as mine and drive away that 
sorrow which I read only too plainly in your face. 
Will you not confide in me? Tell me what there 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


236 

lacks to make you happy at this time when all around 
us looks so bright and full of promise/’ 

Nothing should be lacking, it is true ! ” 

“ Does not the future stretch before you brilliant 
and full of honor and renown ? ” 

“ The future ! ” he exclaims, his face contracting ; 
“ I have no thought for the future now, only for the 
gladness of this present hour. If it could only last 
thus until the end of time I would not ask for more. 
Let us shut out the future and live only for the 
moment that we have.” 

He puts his arm about her neck and is about to 
draw her closer to him when the sudden tinkling of 
the outer bell causes them both to start sharply. 
Agnes is about to go to the door, when he stops her. 

“ Let me go,” he says. “ It is probably someone for 
me.” 

At the door, he finds his servant who, surmising he 
is here, has come over from the house with a letter. 
It was left, the man explains, a few minutes ago, and 
as it was marked “ Important” he thought it advisable 
to bring it over at once. 

Standing under the light of the hall lamp, Henson 
immediately breaks open the letter and reads : 


Mrs. Ward requests that Dr. Henson will call on her 
at once upon an urgent matter. She will await him 
up to ten o’oclock to-night and if by then she has not 
seen him, she will expect him without fail to-morrow, 
between ten and twelve A. M.” 


“The girl who brought the letter,” remarks the 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 237 

man, “ is still waiting at the house in case I found you 
here and there was an answer.” 

Henson crushes the letter between his fingers and 
thrusts it into his pocket. 

“ Send back word,” he orders, “ that I will call 
within the hour.” 

He returns to the dining-room, where he finds 
Anges standing before tine fire. 

“ Isn’t that too bad ! ” she exclaims, as he enters. 
“ I heard what you said to your man. Must you 
really go } 

“Yes,” he replies, in a strangely unsteady voice; 
“ it is a matter of — of — vital importance.” 

Very lovingly, very tenderly, he bids her good-bye 
and moves to the door of the dining-room. There, he 
turns : 

“ Kiss me once more.” 

Never has he held her in so long and impassioned a 
caress. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Not an instant’s doubt is there in Henson’s mind as 
to why Mrs. Ward has sent for him. It is not, he is 
very sure, with regard to any professional matter that 
she wishes to see him, but unquestionably in relation 
to Bronk. Taking everything into consideration, he is 
glad of the receipt of this message; he will at least 
have an opportunity of ascertaining the course she 
means to pursue. Besides, this interview opens up a 
chance for defence, and no cause is absolutely lost as 
long as a last chance is still left. 


238 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


On the other hand, he must not be too sanguine. 
For all he knows, Mrs. Ward may be simply drawing 
him into a trap. She may already have communicated 
with the authorities, who may be seeking through this 
interview to confront him with Mrs. Ward, for pur- 
poses of identification, and he may never again leave 
her house a free man. This contingency he must 
realize, and take his precautions accordingly. 

He walks rapidly to his house and, entering his lab- 
oratory, goes to a little cabinet in the corner of the 
room. This cabinet he unlocks, and from one of the 
upper shelves takes down a small bottle containing a 
yellow colored substance, in grains about the size of 
bird seed. It is an East Indian poison, but little 
known in this country, having something of the prop- 
erties of morphine, only infinitely more powerful than 
that drug. Whoever swallows one of these tiny pel- 
lets will quickly sink into a delicious sleep — a sleep 
from which there will never be any awakening. He 
drops a few of the grains into the corner of his 
waistcoat pocket, and two more inside the index 
finger of his right glove, confident that no ordinary 
search is likely to result in the detection of these 
minute objects. Now he is ready to go to Mrs. 
Ward’s ; he is prepared for the worst. 

He proceeds direct to West Twenty-second Street 
and, in response to his ring, the door is opened by the 
same maid-servant as he has seen during his visit in 
the afternoon. 

This servant has evidently received her orders, for 
after considerately warning him against sundry paint 
pots left standing in the hall by the workmen, she 
shows him at once to Mrs. Ward’s room. There he 


PHILIP HENSON, M. U. 


239 


finds everything the same as during his previous visit, 
except that the arrangement of the furniture has been 
slightly changed. The invalid’s couch upon which 
Mrs. Ward lies is now pushed close to the wall, and 
beside it is a good sized table upon which stands a 
reading lamp, some books and periodicals, anid a 
syphon of Teplitz water. At some little distance back 
from the head of the bed is a table supporting a small 
gas stove, upon which the bowl of gruel Mrs. Ward 
takes the last thing before preparing for rest is being 
kept warm. A good fire is burning in the grate and 
the room is almost uncomfortably warm. It strikes 
Henson as especially so, after coming direct from the 
raw outer air, and with an involuntary motion he 
throws back his coat. 

“Take Dr. Henson’s overcoat, Mary,” orders Mrs. 
Ward. “ I am sorry,” she adds courteously to Hen- 
son, “ that our hall is in such confusion owing to the 
workmen.” 

“ Never mind ; don’t trouTle,” exclaims Henson to 
the maid ; and he quickly draws off his overcoat and 
tosses it, together with his hat, upon a small lounge 
ranged along the wall just behind the table supporting 
the gas stove. While he is thus engaged, Mrs. Ward 
lays her hand firmly, yet with apparent carelessness 
upon a hand bell on the table beside her. 

“ Wait in the other room, Mary, until I ring,” she 
instructs the servant. “When I do ring,” she adds, 
“ do not keep me waiting.” 

Henson, closely watchful, notes this movement of 
the hand to the bell and these orders to the girl. 

What does this woman mean ? he thinks to himself. 
Does she fear he will attempt to cut her throat ! 


240 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ Be seated,” says Mrs. Ward, as soon as the door 
has closed upon the girl, pointing to a chair near her 
bed. 

Henson takes the seat indicated, slightly moving 
the chair as he sits down, so that his face shall not be 
directly within the circle of light thrown out by the 
lamp. 

‘‘ How do you find yourself this evening?” he asks, 
with a professional air. No unfavorable changes in 
your condition, I hope, have led to your sending for 
me again so soon.” 

“ No,” answers Mrs. Ward, slowly ; “ I have not sent 
for you on this account, nor in any way in your pro- 
fessional capacity. It is on other matters, of the 
very gravest importance, that I have asked you to 
come to me.” 

Henson simply bows, and sits awaiting her further 
explanation. There is a moment’s silence between 
them — a moment which Henson finds terribly long — 
before Mrs. Ward can chose the words with which to 
begin. 

“You have perhaps heard,” she says at last, ‘'the 

circumstances under which from this room ” she 

points toward one of the windows — “ I came to see 
the face of the man whom there is every reason to 
believe was the murderer of that unfortunate Mr 
Bronk.” 

Again Henson bows. 

“ Yes,” he answers, with just enough of the gravity 
that the subject warrants, “ Miss Denton has told m.e 
about, that.” 

“ Perhaps,” continues Mrs. Ward, “ it may surprise 
you that, after such a lapse of time, this face should 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 241 

have remained so firmly impressed upon my mind 
that I am able to recognize it now ? ” 

“ It is, indeed, quite remarkable.” 

“Not so much so,” she rejoins, “with those who 
have a special adaptability for remembering faces. 
From my earliest years, I have had this adaptability, 
and it has continued with me throughout my later 
life. To this day I can recall, with the utmost dis- 
tinctness, the faces of my companions at school and of 
persons whom I saw when I was a very young child. 
These faces I do not merely remember vaguely and 
indistinctly ; 1 can bring each separately before me, 
clearly and sharply defined, without the slightest 
confusion as to many details of the most trifling 
character.” 

“Indeed!” exclaims Henson, looking slightly 
bored. “ I may say to you, though, that the impres- 
sions of childhood are generally very vivid and lasting.” 

“ So I am aware ; but this vividness and persistency 
do not exist alone in my childhood impressions. I 
have just as clear and good a memory for faces to-day 
as I ever had, and this memory is certainly not likely 
to be greatly taxed or overburdened, for, as you can 
realize, one in my invalided condition does not see 
many new faces. Whenever I think of people whom 
I have met in the past, even though it be a long time 
ago, I can at once bring them plainly before me ; just 
the same as when I read of some public man whom I 
have met, or even whose portrait I have seen, I can 
reproduce for myself his features with much vividness 
and accuracy. I purposely dwell at length upon these 
details ; they have an important bearing upon what I 
have to say to you, as you will admit presently.” 


242 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


There is no necessity of her indicating to him the 
importance of these points ; he appreciates it only too 
forcibly. 

“ Such being the case with me,” she resumes, “ it is, 
then, surely not so surprising that the face and bear- 
ing of the man I saw at the window should have 
remained firmly impressed upon my memory ; you 
admit this, do you not ? ” 

Since you ask my opinion,” he rejoins, “ I feel it 
necessary to warn you that the operations of memory 
are not so simple as is popularly supposed. To con- 
stitute a perfect operation of the memory, three con- 
ditions are essential, namely : first, preservation or 
retention of a given event; second, its reproduction; 
third, its accurate localization as to circumstance, time 
or place. It very frequently exists that the first two 
of these conditions are fulfilled, but the third is con- 
fused or incomplete.” 

“ I do not know whether I understand you well,” 
exclaims Mrs. Ward. Will you not describe a little 
more fully ? ” 

“ Let me illustrate. Has it not often occurred that 
you have found yourself unable for the moment to 
recall a word, or a name, which you knew perfectly 
well and which you were certain, to use a popular 
phrase, you had in your head?” 

“ Very often.” 

“ The retention of this word, or name, in your head 
was the first operation of memory, but you were un- 
able to effect the second operation, which consists of 
recalluig that which you had stored or retained. 
Half an hour later, when the word, or name, came into 
your mind like a flash — perhaps when your thoughts 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


243 


were on some entirely different topic — this second 
operation of recalling had taken place. Do I make 
myself clear ? ” 

“ Fully.” 

“ The third operation consists of locating the time, or 
place, or other accompanying circumstances in relation 
to the object or events thought of. It is in this third 
operation that confusion and error are most liable to 
creep in. Persons are frequently able to preserve the 
memory of an event and recall it, but in the third 
operation of memory they get this event confused 
with something else that has transpired, or that they 
have seen, under other circumstances, or at some other 
time or place. Take a face, for example, since we are 
speaking on the subject of faces. A face is seen and 
stored in the memory^ — first operation ; it is more or 
less accurately recalled — second operation ; but in the 
third operation the memory gets that face confused 
with some other face, which may or may not resemble 
it, and which other face has been seen under totally 
different conditions, perhaps, as to time, place or 
circumstance. There you have an error in the third 
operation. Only a few days ago I remember a friend 
of mine getting the face of his new minister mixed up 
with that of the new proprietor of a tea. store in his 
neighborhood. These deficiencies in the third opera- 
tion of memory are exceedingly common and very 
curious at times, I assure you. Do you follow me?” 

“ Yes ; it is a matter of error as to identity ? ” 

“ Exactly ; I see you have understood me remark 
ably well.” 

“lam glad to find that is so, for it enables me to 
assure you positively that in this third operation you 


244 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


have described my memory is certainly not lacking or 
at fault.” 

Thus the conversation shapes itself, it being of vital 
importance to Henson to instil doubt into the mind of 
Mrs. Ward as to the absolute reliability of her powers 
of recollection, and to lead her to believe that her 
memory in which she has hitherto placed so much 
reliance may, after all, be capable of error. 

“ It is not well to be too sure of that,” he declares, 
with the air of a man carefully weighing an intricate 
point. “ It is precisely this third operation which is 
the most delicate and complex of the three, since it 
involves a number of secondary conditions, highly 
variable in number and degree, one or more of whose 
reacting influences may radically affect the operation 
as a whole.” 

Mrs. Ward is silent, evidently making a great effort 
to grasp the full meaning of this much involved 
proposition. 

“ I do not understand,” she finally admits frankly. 

This is exactly what Henson wants; he has fully 
meant that she shall not understand. Still, as it 
would not be wise to let her suspect that he is seeking 
to mystify or confuse her, he thinks it well to be a 
little more explicit. 

“ What is it you do not understand ? ” he asks. 
“ Let me see if I cannot make it clear.” 

“ For instance,” she inquires, “ what secondary con- 
dition might, as you say, interfere with the reliability 
of the operation as a whole?” 

“Well,” he answers, “there are quite a number of 
these conditions, but as an instance of one of them I 
may mention sight. Can you be always certain that 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


245 


between the mechanism of sight and that of recollec- 
tion, which is practically a sight into the past, no 
confusion has crept in ? 

She breathes easier, evidently pleased at being able 
to see. her way more clearly in this atmosphere of 
subtlety with which he has contrived to siutround her. 

“ It is exactly,” she rejoins, “ because I admit the 
possibility of the existence of a condition such as this 
that I have asked you to come to me.” 

Henson nods slightly, with the puzzled air of a man 
who does not understand what all this is drifting to. 

“ When you called here this afternoon with Dr. 
Taylor,” she continues, “you can hardly have failed 
to notice that I stared at you in certainly a very 
unusual way. Before the lamp was brought in and 
while you were standing with your back to the light, I 
was striving to recall when or where I had already 
seen you. Ther^ was that in your face, indistinctly 
as I could see it, which recalled something familiar, 
something I had seen before ; but the time and 
place, or the circumstances under which I had seen 
you I could not for the moment fix. In other words, 
what you describe as the third operation necessary to 
effect a complete act of memory was lacking. When 
you returned after the consultation and I saw you in 
the light of the lamp, my recollections began to 
assume shape. I raised the shade, the light fell full 
upon you, and then, as I plainly beheld the face — the 
eyes — turned toward me, with the startled expression 
caused by the sudden blaze of light, everything came 
to me like a flash — those eyes, that face belonged to 
the man I had seen at the window over there ! ” 

Henson does not wince. 


246 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“Certainly very curious!” he observes, with a 
slight smile. “ You see now what fantastic tricks one s 
eyesight and memory are liable to play one.” 

“ I said to myself that it could not be,” she resumes, 
apparently paying little attention to his words,/ ‘ and 
after the fijist shock of surprise, which drew from me a 
cry, was over, I repeated to myself that it was impossi- 
ble. In support of this I recalled the fact that the 
man I had seen wore a full blond beard, but when Dr. 
Taylor spoke of your having recently cut off a full 
blond beard, I was dumfounded. Then it was that I 
asked you if you had known Mr. Bronk. You remem- 
ber your answer.” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ After you had left, I found myself in a state of 
terrible doubt. According to my fullest conviction, 
you were the man that I had seen at the window, and 
yet this seemed a monstrous idea ir^ connection with 
a man of your position. What ought I to do : com- 
municate with the authorities, or seek an interview 
with you ? For some time I could not make up my 
mind. Finally, I decided it would be best to see you, 
and hence my letter.” 

“Well,” answers Henson, mildly, “I have come in 
response to your note, but I confess that I do not 
know how to reply to this extraordinary communica- 
tion you make to me. You really think you see a 
certain resemblance between me and the man you saw 
at the window ? ” 

“ I recognize in you the man ! ” 

“What am I to answer to a statement such as this ; 
do you seek my professional advice on the subject ? ” 
“ Not at all,” she answers, decisively. “ My health 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


247 


has nothing whatever to do with this question, which 
entirely concerns you. My eyes, my memory, my 
conscience bear against you a terrible accusation. I 
want to learn that my eyes and my memory have alike 
deceived me, and I look to you to prove that such is 
the case.” 

“And how, pray, do you expect me to do this?” 

“ That is for you to decide. I certainly want some- 
thing more substantial than a mere denial.” 

“You can scarcely expect a man of my standing to 
condescend to discuss an accusation of this character, 
based upon hallucinations — ” 

“If you think I am suffering from hallucinations,” 
interrupts Mrs. Ward, “ I am perfectly willing to sub- 
mit to an examination by any three physicians of 
standing. If they will positively declare that I am 
afflicted in this form, I will abide by the decision ; if 
not, I shall act accordingly.” 

“ If you have really seen what you describe, Mrs. 
Ward,” he protests, “ and I am perfectly willing to 
concede that you have, has it not occurred to you that 
there may be many men in New York whose appear- 
ance is very similar to mine? There are, as you 
doubtless know, frequently cases of the most extraor- 
dinary resemblance.” 

“ I have thought of all that and that is why I wrote 
to you. My object in asking you to come to me was 
to give you an opportunity to prove that it could not 
be you whom I saw.” 

“You must admit that it is difficult for me to con- 
sent to enter into a discussion upon such a subject.” 

“ We are any of us liable to find ourselves incul- 
pated by a chain of accusatory circumstances and still 


248 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


be none the less innocent, as witness the case of that 
unfortunate young man lying in prison for several 
months past, accused of a crime of which I know him 
to be guiltless. I start out with the assumption that 
your innocence is as great as his in this matter, and I 
simply ask you to demonstrate to me that the charges 
which have arisen against you have no foundation in 
fact.” 

“There are no charges against me, madam,” he 
retorts, stiffly. 

“ But there may be before to-morrow is over ! It 
all depends upon you.” 

“ I cannot see what you expect me to say.” 

“ For instance, you might show that your beard had 
been removed prior to the date of the crime, and it 
would then follow as a matter of course that you could 
not have been the man with a full beard seen at the 
window. Now, was your beard cut off prior to that 
date ; or was it not 7 ” 

“ It was not ; I only had it removed a few days ago, 
owing to an affection of the hair from which I was 
suffering.” 

“You might show,” continues Mrs. Ward, seem- 
ingly not much impressed with this explanation, “ that 
on the day of the crime you were absent from the city, 
or that at that precise hour you were at such a dis- 
tance from Twenty-third Stregi that you could not 
have been in Mr. Bronk’s office just as the factory 
whistles were blowing for the men to leave off work at 
six. This, and many other similar circumstances 
which do not occur to me at the moment, you might 
adduce to cle^r yourself in my eyes.” 

Henson thinks of the precautions he took on that 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


249 ^ 

day relative to the establishment of an alibi. These 
precautions would work well enough in an ordinary 
way, but they are valueless in this instance, owing to 
Mrs. Ward’s precise fixing of the time by means of the 
factory whistles. Nothing is to be gained by submit- 
ting to an investigation ; his only hope, he decides, 
lies in his persuading her to abandon the matter alto- 
gether. 

“You have just referred,” he replies, impressively, 

“ to the case of the unfortunate young man who now 
lies in prison charged with this crime ; is not his case 
very similar to mine? Though innocent, he has so 
far been unable to prove himself such. Under your 
accusation, do I not find myself in very much the 
same position ? Supposing you to be reckless enough 
to make such a charge public, even after I had suc- 
ceeded in establishing my guiltle.ssness, have you 
thought of the infamy with which a charge of this 
nature would cover me ? I should be dishonored, 
ruined, for life ! ” 

“ It is just because I realize all this,” she rejoins, 

“ that I brought about this interview ; believing, hop- 
ing, that you would come forward with an explanation 
which would relieve me of all doubt and of the neces- 
sity of taking any further steps in this distressing 
matter. This explanation you fail to give me, and it is 
my duty to remember that an innocent man is under 
accu.sation, whom my testimony can clear. This testi- 
inonyT cannot conscientiously withhold. To-morrow I 
shall communicate with my attorneys and instruct 
them to place my information with the proper authori- 
ties.”' 

“ You will not do that! ” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


2$0 

He draws off his right glove, which up to the pres- 
ent has remained on his hand. As he does so, one 
of the little seeds of the Indian drug, which he 
dropped into the index finger before leaving his labor- 
atory, remains wedged under his finger nail. 

“ My duty,’’ answers Mrs. Ward, “ compels me. I 
cannot for a moment forget that an innocent man is 
accused and that I owe him my testimony. Between 
the innocent and the guilty, I range myself on the side 
of the innocent.” 

“ I assure you that you are suffering from an optical 
delusion — ” 

“ That representation you may lay before the proper 
authorities when the time comes ; let them decide as 
to that ! ” 

He rises angrily; her fingers close more tightly 
upon the bell. The dark eyes of Mrs. Ward and the 
blue eyes of He-nson— those eyes of that peculiar 
pale blue — look into each other, and what the lips 
do not express the eyes do. I do not fear you, the 
black eyes boldly declare ; mV precautions are taken. 
— Do not be too sure ! flash back the pale blue eyes 
of Henson ; I may crush you yet, in spite of your bell. 

Thus they face each other for a moment, and at 
last Henson speaks, his voice harsh and trembling 
with suppressed anger : 

“With you will lie the responsiblity of whatever 
happens.” 

“ I accept that responsibility before God and my 
conscience,” she answers, firmly; “let come what 
may.” 

He turns sharply and strides over to the lounge 
upon which he has thrown his hat and coat. For an 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


25 


instant, as he reaches forward, the little gas stove on 
the table beside the lounge is hidden from Mrs. 
Ward’s view. In that brief instant, he stretches his 
right hand over the open vessel on the gas stove and, 
drawing back the flesh at the tip of his forefinger, 
allows the tiny seed to drop from under his nail into 
the gruel. In another instant, he has turned and is 
drawing on his coat. 

At the same time, Mrs. Ward touches her hand bell; 
immediately the servant appears : 

“ Mary, show Dr. Henson down.” 


CHAPTER X. 

Just how he made his way home through the snow 
and the sleet, he does not know ; his mind seems 
to have been benumbed during this homeward journey. 
On reaching his house, he gropes his way to his 
laboratory and, without even lighting the gas, sinks 
prostrate on a lounge and lies there in the darkness 
overwhelmed. 

What strikes him as so terrible is the appalling 
rapidity with which he has condemned this poor 
woman to death, and the equally terrible swiftness 
with which execution has followed the conception of 
her removal. It was only when she spoke of notifying 
the authorities to-morrow, and he drew off his glove 
and found the dread djahassa seed clinging beneath 
his nail, that the idea came to him ; less than sixty 
seconds later, it had been carried out. This time there 
had been no hesitation, as in the case of Bronk, no 


252 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


weighing of the pros and conSy no deliberation as to 
any mitigating features of the act ; all had been con- 
ceived, decided upon, carried out with as little attend- 
ant circumstance and delay as if this woman’s life 
were of no more weight than that of one of the rab- 
bits he so often had occasion to sacrifice in his exper- 
iments. 

Was he growing used to murder! 

A shudder passes over him from head to foot as he 
thinks that this victim may not be the last victim 
which his salvation may exact. When she had 
spoken of notifying the authorities, this threat was all 
he saw ; if she spoke, he was lost. He had closed 
the lips which menaced his safety, but what if he had 
been too late ! 'What if those lips had already spoken 
before they closed forever? Before Mrs. Ward had 
decided upon this interview with him, it was quite 
possible that she might have taken advice as to the 
course to pursue; she might have consulted with Tay- 
lor, or other among her confidential advisers, or 
friends. What then? Must they also be made way 
with ? 

What a situation 1 If she has spoken, either this 
last crime is useless, or it must be followed by another, 
possibly a series of crimes. 

Such a frenzy of horror takes possession of him that 
he is seized with a wild impulse and longing to rush 
back to West Twenty-second Street, to arouse the 
household, to force his way to her room and bring her 
assistance. Perhaps he may yet be in time ; the 
essence of the dead yellow djahassa may not yet have 
fully performed its work. In the cabinet, there, is the 
antidote to this subtle Indian drug ; he alone of all 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 253 

the doctors in the country could save her at this 
moment. 

He lights the gas, goes to the cabinet, throws open 
the door and drags out a bottle from one of the 
shelves. Yes, yes ; with this he may save her yet ! 

And what then ? 

Then — then — to-morrow she will denounce him ; 
Agnes will know— 

Slowly he turns, puts the bottle back on the shelf 
and closes the door of the cabinet. 

He throws himself down on the lounge, but cannot 
rest. In an instant, he is again on his feet. 

Great God ! she is dying now — probably at this 
moment she is sinking into the first stages of that fatal 
sleep from which her eyes will never again open and 
look upon the light. A short time more and not all 
the antidotes of the world will save her. 

The perspiration breaks out on his forehead and 
temples in great drops. 

It is horrible to think of this woman dying in this 
^ay — horrible ! But, no ; after all it may not be. 
Perhaps, by some fortuitous chance, she may not have 
taken the gruel. Then, she will be saved and he will 
be lost. So let it be. May fate decide between 
them. 

He strides up and down the room, the prey of a 
dreadful anguish. To and fro, back and forth, he 
goes, just like one of the wild beasts in the cages of 
the menagerie. Suddenly, he stops abruptly. This 
will not do. Somebody may overhear him and won- 
der what this means ; this walking up and down in the 
dead of the night, when honest folks are in their beds. 
Why cannot this man sleep? why must he walk 


254 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


o’nights ? they may ask themselves — and he must do 
nothing that draws upon himself attention or remark. 
He cannot sit still, though ; so he draws off his boots 
and, bare-footed, resumes his walk, this walk of the wild 
beast in the cage, up and down, back and forth. 

What is happening in that room in West Twenty- 
second Street now? 

. It is midnight. It is all over; fate has decided 
between them by this time. Either he is lost ; or the 
lips that threatened his safety will never move 
again. 

The night creeps by, and still he continues that 
beast-like walk up and down, experiencing no abate- 
ment of the mental torture, knowing no rest. At 
last, as the faint gray light of the early morning 
appears, he throws himself exhausted on the lounge 
and drops asleep. How long he has slept he does not 
know, when he is aroused by the ringing of his elec- 
tric night bell. He springs up with a fearful start, 
and finds it is almost daylight ; the light of the winter 
morning is struggling undecidedly through the win- 
dow, and he can hear the carts passing in the street. 
He looks at the clock ; it is a little after seven. As 
he stands there shivering after his sleep on the lounge 
in his clothes, the electric bell is again rung, this time 
more loudly and more continuously than before. He 
goes to the door, and there he finds the servant of 
Mrs. Ward ; the same servant whom he saw on both 
his visits to the house on the previous day. 

In an instant he knows all ; fate has decided in his 
favor — the pale and frightened face of the girl is 
enough to tell him that. 

Quickly she tells her errand. Upon going to her 


PHILIP PIENSON, M.D. 


255 


mistress’ room as usual, the first thing after getting up, 
she has found her white and cold and speechless. At 
once she hurried for assistance. 

“ Why did you not go for Dr. Taylor ? ” questions 
Henson, rapidly; “he was much nearer.” 

“ I did, sir,” answers the girl, “ but they told me at 
his house that he had left at six o’clock to catch the 
first train for Albany. I then came straight here.” 

“ I will go with you at once,” he says. 

During the rapidly made journey to West Twenty- 
second Street, Henson asks the girl a few particulars 
as to the appearance presented by her mistress when 
found, which the girl is unable to give, having been 
too excited to notice much. He next questions her 
as to her mistress’ actions on the previous evening, 
both before and after his visit. Before he called, he 
finds Mrs. Ward had only one visitor, a Mrs. Childs, 
living in Cleveland, who called to say good bye before 
leaving next day for her home. After he had left, 
she saw nobody. She seemed more restless than 
usual, and looked through some illustrated newspapers 
for quite a time before preparing for rest. At last, 
however, she drank her gruel and soon after went 
quietly to sleep. 

All the rest of the way, Henson occupies himself 
with fixing the name of this Mrs. Childs, of Cleveland, 
firmly in his mind. He may find it necessary later on, 
perhaps, to remember the name of this person whom 
Mrs. Ward has seen. 

Arrived at the house, he ascends for the third time 
in the past momentous forty-eight hours the two 
flights of stairs leading to Mrs. Ward’s room, and 
enters what is now the death chamber. The sight of 


256 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

death has long ago become such a familiar spectacle 
to him that, even in its more revolting forms he is able 
to look upon it unmoved. In this instance, death 
certainly presents no unpleasant physical aspects ; the 
white face on the pillow is very peaceful and bears the 
serene expression of one who expeiiences the approach 
of a delicious drowsiness— that delicious diowsitiess 
induced by the treacherous djahassa ! and yet, as he 
looks down on this motionless figure in the bed, a 
shudder passes over him. He searches for any indi- 
cation of a pulse beat and applies the stethoscope 
over the region of the heart. Useless formality ; the 
djahassa has fully completed its work ! 

As he looks up, he notices a bowl standing on the 
table beside the bed ; in it, he notes, there remains a 
small quantity of gruel. He turns to the servant who, 
together with the cook, stands at some little distance 
away, looking with awe-stricken glances toward the 
bed. 

“ Go to the kitchen,” he directs, “ and bring me 
some water as hot as you can get it. You, cook, go 
and prepare me a bag of hot salt.” 

As soon as he is alone, he takes the bowl and going 
to a stationary wash stand empties the remnants down 
the sink. When the girl returns with the hot water he 
has ordered, she finds him bending over the bed. 
Of no use the hot water, he declares ; there is no hope 
of resuscitation. Death has evidently taken place 
several hours ago, heart failure being doubtless the 
immediate cause. 

“You say Dr. Taylor is absent from the city?” he 
continues, addressing the girl. 

“ Yes, Doctor.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


257 


'"Then, under the circumstances, I shall not 
hesitate, you may say, to grant the necessary death 
certificate.” 


CHAPTER XL 

When Henson, with profound emotion, breaks to 
Agnes the news of Mrs. Ward’s death, she gives way 
completely. Not only has she already formed a 
strong personal attachment for Mrs. Ward, but then — 
Will ! For Will, this event means the direst misfor- 
tune that could have befallen. 

She has built so much upon Mrs. Ward’s testimony ; 
she has counted with such enthusiasm not only upon 
Will’s acquittal, but also upon his fullest vindication, 
that now that this sheet anchor upon which she has so 
stoutly relied is gone, everything looks to her darker 
and more threatening than at any time before. 
Henson still maintains an unshaken belief in Will’s 
acquittal at the trial, but this assurance seems small 
consolation to offer in the face of such unexpected and 
overwhelming disappointment. 

As for Mrs. Denton, the news completely prostrates 
this unhappy mother, and for several days she is con- 
fined to her bed, with Agnes in close attendance. Not 
much time is left them, however, for sorrow or be- 
wailing; the day of the trial is fast approaching and 
tears must give way to action. As soon as Mrs. 
Denton has partially recovered from the first shock, 
Henson accompanies Agnes to the offices of Messrs. 
Winslow & Duncan to hold a consultation with the 
attorneys. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


258 

Mr. Duncan is likewise deeply upset over the sud- 
den loss of this important witness, of whose testimony 
not even a vestige in the form of an affidavit remains. 
No dramatic situation now to which the newspapers 
would have devoted a couple of columns of space ; no 
baffied and disconcerted District Attorney ; no thril- 
ling climax with which to dazzle the court-room 
spectators — everything that he had so counted upon 
and felicitated himself over has hopelessly vanished ! 
Really, it is too bad ! 

This latest development in the case naturally in- 
volves a material modification in the outline of defence 
projected while Mrs. Ward was still alive. That 
which Mrs. Ward would have told will now have to 
be brought out in the form of a statement made to 
Agnes and to Henson, in which form the evidence 
will naturally fall far short of the value it would have 
had if deposed by Mrs. Ward personally on the stand ; 
but it is all that can be done under the circumstances. 
The defence will also lay great stress upon the 
medical testimony of Henson, 'tending to break down 
the theory of the prosecution as to a struggle having 
taken place. His opinion on this point, Mr. Duncan 
warns Henson, he must be prepared to maintain 
against opposing expert testimony which the pros- 
ecution will almost undoubtedly seek to bring for- 
ward. Henson assures the lawyer that he need have 
no uneasiness as to his ability to efficiently demon- 
strate the soundness of his opinion on this score. 

To Agnes’s anxious question, at the close of the 
interview, as to whether there is really any chance of 
an adverse verdict, Mr. Duncan returns a very guarded 
reply. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


259 


“A chance of an adverse verdict!” he exclaims, 
addressing more particularly Henson ; “ there is always 
a chance of that, even with the best of cases, just as 
there is always a chance, that even in perfect health, 
one may suddenly die. I strongly hope for an acquit- 
tal, I will even say that I anticipate it ; but do not 
deceive yourselves with the false belief that the prose- 
cution has anything like a weak case. 

From this interview Agnes naturally comes away 
anything but reassured, and the remaining days which 
now only intervene between the trial are for her full of 
poignant anxiety. To the best of his power Henson 
seeks to sustain her courage : 

“ It is not to be believed,” he exclaims, “that an 
innocent man can be convicted upon such a flimsy 
case as, after all, the prosecution has. In a few days 
more, he will surely be back among us.” 

If he were only the man he used to be, she would 
doubtless be inspired with some of the confidence and 
courage he seeks so hard to instil ; but since the death 
of Mrs. Ward such great changes have come over him 
that she cannot fail to notice them and feel corre- 
spondingly uneasy. It is evidently the loss of Mrs. 
Ward to which is attributable his marked depression 
and which has rendered him irritable to such a degree 
that he cannot tolerate the least contradiction. This 
.seems to be especially the case in anything relating to 
Will, the least reference to any possible disastrous 
termination of the trial exasperating him greatly. All 
this appears readily explicable enough to Agnes ; no 
doubt he realizes the full danger of Will’s position 
now that Mrs. Ward is gone and is completely upset 
in consequence. No doubt, too, he reproaches him- 


26 o 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


self with not having consented to take Mrs. Ward’s 
case in hand sooner, in which event she might possibly 
have been saved. Poor Philip, so full of generosity, 
of self-sacrifice, of feeling for others ! 

In the meantime, Henson hears nothing from Mrs. 
Childs, although, as he has learned, that lady was 
present at the funeral, which shows with satisfactory 
conclusiveness that Mrs. Ward on that last evening 
disclosed nothing to her visitor. 

At last the day of the trial arrives, and General 
Sessions is filled with the usual mixed assemblage of 
spectators. Almost up to the last moment before he 
is brought to court, Agnes has remained with Will in 
the counsel room of the City Prison, so as to keep up 
his courage and inspire him with a very necessary 
degree of self-confidence, for it has been decided that 
he shall take the stand in his own defence. Agnes is, 
however, anything but well satisfied with the result of 
her efforts in this direction, for Will remains gloomy 
and despondent, having apparently already more than 
half given up the battle as lost. Ever since he has 
learned of the death of Mrs. Ward, he has made up 
his mind that, to use his own favorite expression, luck 
is dead against him and that matters can hardly fail 
to culminate as disastrously as possible. 

The case for the People, as already predicted by Mr. 
Duncan, is conducted by the District Attorney in per- 
son, aided by one of the ablest assistants of his staff, 
who takes notes of the evidence and watches the tech- 
nical legal points, thus leaving his Chief unhampered 
to deliver battle to his opponents. A short, strongly 
built man is the District Attorney ; with dark eyes, 
smooth shaven face, and a general appearance not 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


261 

unremotely suggestive of some orator of the formn in 
the days of ancient Rome. He has a reputation as an 
orator of the impassioned type, and time and again, 
alike in court-room and political debate, the vigor and 
trenchant force of his oratory have attracted wide- 
spread newspaper comment. Dressed in a neat fitting 
black frock coat, with a dainty red rosebud in his 
button-hole, he sits, his dark eyes flashing with sup- 
pressed excitement, awaiting the opening of the legal 
fray. In behalf of the defence, the offlce of Winslow 
& Duncan is out in force. Mr. Duncan, dressed like 
the District Attorney in tight fitting black frock coat, 
looks a very bright, clear cut and keen antagonist to 
the champipn for the People. He, also, wears a rose 
in his button-hole, but it is a white one, intended 
doubtless to typify the innocence of his client and the 
purity of his cause in general. Beside Mr. Duncan is 
his partner, Mr. Winslow, who, assisted by the firm’s 
managing clerk, keeps watch over the technical points 
and the evidence. In the enclosure reserved for the 
press, every seat at the tables is occupied by news- 
paper men, the cracks of their respective staffs ; for 
the growing reputation of Mr. Duncan as a great 
pleader and the presence in court of the District 
Attorney in person has led to the anticipation of a 
most interesting and sensational legal battle. On the 
Bench sits the Recorder, cold and impassive, as aus- 
tere and relentless an adjudicator as ever meted out 
justice in the old Jacobin days. 

The jury is empanelled with less difficulty, objec- 
tion and delay than are usually encountered in this 
matter. The District Attorney’s opening speech is 
unusually brief ; he is evidently holding himself in 


262 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


reserve ; and it thus happens that the actual hearing 
of the evidence is quickly reached. The prosecution 
opens with the usual formal evidence as to the finding 
of the body and the cause of death. Then the Dis- 
trict Attorney proceeds to really develop his case. 
He shows by the testimony of Bronk’s clerk that the 
deceased was alive at five o’clock on the day of the 
murder, this being the time the witness left the office 
for the day. Next comes , the testimony of the jani- 
tress of the building, who deposes that a few minutes 
after the departure of the clerk she saw the prisoner 
pass her on the stairs and enter the office of Mr. 
Bronk ; that she heard shortly afterward loud quarrel- 
ing, and also a sound as if some heavy object had 
fallen. Her testimony also goes to show that the 
prisoner was a former employee of the deceased, and 
therefore must, as a necessary inference, have been 
well acquainted with the latter’s habits and the time 
when he was most likely to be found alone. By an 
artful series of questions as to whether, a person 
standing outside could, himself unobserved, have 
watched for the exit of a person leaving the building, 
the District Attorney manages to convey the insinua- 
tion to the minds of the jury that the prisoner was 
waiting outside and watching for the departure of 
Bronk’s clerk after the close of his duties for the day. 
On cross-examination the witness admits having heard 
the sound of footsteps going in the direction of the 
deceased’s office after she had seen the prisoner leave, 
but in reply to the District Attorney she confesses 
hat she is not positive that the person she heard 
actually entered the office, and the steps, she concedes, 
might have been those of some other tenant on the 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


263 


same floor. She cannot even say positively that it 
rnight not have been the prisoner himself returning to 
the offlce. Detective Sergeant Heidelberg next takes 
the stand and testifies, with due official impressiveness, 
to the finding of the button and its tracing as the 
property of the accused. This evidence as to the 
ownership of the button is corroborated by the testi- 
mony of Kratz, the tailor, who succeeds with his 
remarkable distortions of the English language and his 
invariable demand for a repetition of each question in 
drawing down upon himself an irritated reproof from 
the Recorder, whereat his terror and confusion be- 
come so great that he is given up in despair alike by 
the District Attorney and the counsel for the defence. 
Kratz is followed on the stand by the manufacturer of 
the patent button found ; and then comes some expert 
testimony as to the degree of force it would have 
required to wrench this button loose, together with 
the accompanying bit of cloth, the trousers being sub- 
mitted in evidence. After this there are a few more 
witnesses of minor importance, whose testimony bears 
more or less forcibly in support of the case for the Peo- 
ple, and when at last the District Attorney announces 
that his side rests, the general impression is that the 
prosecution has presented a decidedly strong case. 

To offset this long and weU connected chain of evi- 
dence which the prosecution has welded against the 
prisoner, the defence has really little that is substan- 
tial to offer. There is nothing, in fact, beyond the 
defendant’s denial in his own behalf ; the medical tes- 
timony of Henson, and the testimony both of Henson 
and Agnes as to the declarations made to them by 
Mrs. Ward. Mr. Duncan accordingly directs Will to 


264 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


take the stand, which he does with that air of depres- 
sion and apathy which has marked his bearing 
throughout the hearing. He defends himself badly ; 
that is to say he tells his story lamely and without 
conviction or force, and his evidence obviously fails to 
make any decided impression on the jury. When it 
comes to cross-examination, the wily District Attorney 
manages, despite the cleverly interposed objections of 
Mr. Duncan, to involve the witness in several minor 
contradictions, and when he leaves the stand the gen- 
eral feeling is that his testimony has been colorless 
and lacking in fervor, and that whatever little weight 
it may have had with the jury has been more than 
counterbalanced by the opportunity offered the Dis- 
trict Attorney for a telling cross-examination. Very 
different from this witness’ testimony is that of Hen- 
son, who next follows. Skilfully led on by the well 
placed questions of Mr*. Duncan, he proceeds to 
explain with great clearness and precision how the 
position of the body and the nature of the wound 
strongly point against there having been any struggle. 
He then goes on to describe the nature of the commu- 
nication made to him by Mrs. Ward, while attending 
her in a professional capacity on the night preceding 
her death. The testimony evidently creates some 
impression with the 'jury this time, and it is the first 
notable point as yet scored in the prisoner’s favor. 
The District Attorney in his cross-examination is 
extremely brief and extremely polite. To the surprise 
of both Henson and Mr. Duncan, he makes no attempt 
whatever to combat the expert medical testimony 
given. He evidently feels that the sooner this cool, 
self-possessed witness is gotten rid of, the better. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


265 

“You have been for some years past the family 
physician of the Dentons, Doctor?” he inquires, 
unctiously. 

“ Yes.” 

“You bear a decided interest in this defendant’s 
acquittal, do you not ? ” 

“ The same interest that I would bear in witnessing 
the acquittal of any man of whose innocence I was 
convinced,” answers Henson, guardedly, and much 
mistrusting this oily mannered cross-examiner. 

“ You called some time ago, did you not, upon a 
certain official and earnestly sought to bring about the 
prisoner’s release ? ” 

“ I called at Police Headquarters, at the solicita- 
tion of the defendant’s friends, and directed the 
attention of the Inspector to certain points in the 
case.” 

“ As a matter of fact, you entertain a strong interest 
for the prisoner and his family, do you not? ” 

Mr. Duncan objects to this line of cross-examination 
as irrelevant, and the District Attorney promptly 
waives the question. He has already accomplished all 
that he seeks, which is to present Henson to the jury in 
the light of an interested witness. Agnes follows, and 
corroborates the preceding witness as regards the 
declarations of Mrs. Ward, her cross-examination being 
also extremely brief. The defence has now nothing 
further to offer beyond testimony as to the violence 
of Bronk’s temper, of which some striking instances 
are given, and evidence as to the prisoner’s good 
character. This having been done and the testimony 
of the accused’s sorrow-stricken mother as to her 
son’s invariable gentleness and goodness having been 


266 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


listened to with deepest respect, Mr. Duncan an- 
nounces that the defence rests. 

The District Attorney at once declares his intention 
of introducing evidence in rebuttal on the question of 
character, and calls to the stand the managing cleik of 
the Exchange Place firm of brokers with whom Will 
was formerly employed. The witness testifies to the 
fact that at the time the prisoner left the firm’s employ 
there was a shortage in his accounts. This shortage, 
he explains on cross-examination,* was subsequently 
made good. The police records of the Thirtieth Street 
police station are also introduced in evidence to show 
that the prisoner was upon one occasion arrested in 
consequence of a brawl in which he was engaged in a 
resort of doubtful repute, much frequented by gay 
young men about town. After this both sides 
rest. 

Mr. Duncan addresses the jury in the prisoner's 
behalf and makes a powerful plea. All the weak 
points in the prosecution’s case he picks out and 
mercilessly dissects before the jury, and the medical 
testimony of Henson and the declarations of Mrs. 
Ward are presented in certainly their strongest light. 
His peroration, in which he makes reference to the 
prisoner’s mother and sister, and asks the jury if they 
can go back to their families and be happy with the 
consciousness that through their error, perhaps, they 
have robbed another family of a son and brother and 
condemned an innocent man — -a man in the first flush 
of his early manhood — is pathetic in the extreme. 
The jury is evidently deeply stirred by his appeal. If 
the case could go to the jury now, an acquittal would 
be almost certain ; but unfortunately for Will Denton 


PHILIP HENSON, M. 1). 267 

the law grants to the prosecution the final address of 
all to the jury. 

The District Attorney rises and faces the jurors. 
He begins by going over the evidence bit by bit, and, 
referring to the objections pointed out by counsel for 
the defence as to relying upon circumstantial evidence, 
declares that as a matter of necessity murderers per- 
form their deeds in darkness and secrecy and that 
it is rare indeed that the assassin is actually seen in the 
perpetration of his crime. It is the mute evidence of 
accusatory circumstances that, as a rule, brings the 
murderer to account for his crime ; and, apart from the 
crime of murder, if the value of circumstantial evidence 
were disregarded half the rogues brought to the bar of 
justice must go unpunished. 

“ All the circumstances in the case,” continues the 
Prosecutor, “go to prove that Wilson R. Bronk was 
done to death between the time his clerk left him, 
shortly after five o’clock, and the time when the build- 
ing was closed, at a quarter past six. Who was the 
last person known to have seen the deceased alive? 
The prisoner — who is heard engaged in loud alterca- 
tion with his former employer. The janitress hears 
the sound of the falling of a heavy body. This sound, 
we contend, was that made by the falling body of 
Bronk, as he dropped under the force of the assassin’s 
stroke. Who was with the deceased at this moment? 

The prisoner ! A few moments later he passes the 
janitress on the stairs, and you have heard how she 
describes him as having appeared flushed and excited. 
Good cause had he at that moment for his excitement 
and agitation, for as he fled from the scene of his 
crime, he had before his eyes his old employer lying 


268 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

back in his chair, his throat gashed from ear to 
ear.” 

Again and again the Prosecutor comes back to the 
fact of the prisoner being unable to name any one 
whom he was with within an hour or more after leav- 
ing the office of the deceased ; of his failure to speak 
to anybody of his interview with Bronk on the day of 
the murder, or of the loss of the button, which he 
replaced, the Prosecutor declares, in solitude and 
secrecy.” Then he proceeds to draw a forcible picture 
of “ this young man whose nights are shown to have 
been passed in brawling and in rioting in fast resorts,” 
being led by his expensive tastes and habits of dissipa- 
tion into a shortage of his accounts with the firm of 
brokers by whom he was employed. Little things 
lead on to greater ones, the Prosecutor continues, and 
this first offence eventually leads up to the culminat- 
ing crime of his career — he assassinates his old em- 
ployer and robs his safe, in pursuit of the means to 
indulge these dissipated habits and to gratify these 
expensive tastes by which he is enslaved. 

The Prosecutor glides lightly over the medical tes- 
timony of Henson. He characterizes it simply as a 
medical opinion, skilfully devised by a kind hearted 
family physician -whose conscience is elastic enough to 
give play to his generous impulse to aid a family in 
whom he admits he is warmly interested. As for the 
declarations of Mrs. Ward, he treats them as hardly 
worthy of extended discussion. If the defence itself 
attached any real importance to the declarations as to 
what this moribund woman alleged to have seen, 
would not the facts at once have been brought to the 
attention of the proper authorities and a nolle proseqni 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 269 

obtained ? But no ; the defence is careful to wait 
until this woman is dead and beyond the reach of 
cross-examination before coming forward with her 
story. The facts speak for themselves ! 

The District Attorney closes with a dramatic 
appeal to the jurors to lay aside all feelings of senti- 
mentality and do their full duty in this case. His 
manner has in it more of the ardor of the special 
pleader than of the cold, dispassionate analysis of 
facts usually affected by the public prosecutor. A 
regular epidemic of murder, he declares, is raging at 
this time in the community, and should the jurymen 
fail to do their full duty they will be morally responsi- 
ble for other assassinations and crimes that will fol- 
low. 

The Recorder’s charge is brief and impartial ; the 
evidence, however, as summarized by him seeming to 
weigh decidedly against the prisoner. Soon the charge 
from the Bench is over and the jury retires. 

Hour after hour passes by without any verdict 
being returned, and gradually the court-rooni specta- 
tors thin out, leaving at last only the lawyers, the 
officials, and the friends of the prisoner. Henson is 
anxious that Agnes should return home, but she 
insists upon remaining. At last, when it is past 
eleven o’clock, there still being no sign of the jury’s 
return, the Recorder decides to go home and lock up 
the jury for the night. Henson escorts Agnes to her 
house and leaves her, with the assurance that this 
delay in the verdict must mean, at the worst, a disa- 
greement. 

All that night one of the gray-coated policeman of 
the City Hall Park observes a tall, largely made man 


2/0 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


wandering up and down in the vicinity of the court- 
house and now and then looking up at the lighted 
window of a room on one of the upper floors where 
the jury is confined. 

Early next morning the jury sends word that an 
agreement has been reached. The Recorder is noti- 
fied and at once hurries to the court-house and takes 
his seat on the bench. The prisoner is brought into 
court ; the District Attorney and the lawyers for the 
defence are there. So also is the man who has paced 
up and down before the court-house throughout the 
long hours of the bitter winter night. The mother 
and sister of the accused are not present ; Mr. 
Duncan having arranged to send them word the 
moment a verdict is announced. The jury files in: 

“What is your verdict, gentlemen of the jury?” 
rings out the voice of the clerk. 

The foreman rises and faces the Recorder. 

“ Guilty of manslaughter in the first degree.” 

The face of the prisoner scarcely changes ; it would 
seem as if he had anticipated conviction all along. 
Counsel for the defence whisper together. In some 
mysterious way, as so frequently happens, the nature 
of the deliberations in the jury-room are already more 
than half known. The majority of the jury, it seems, 
inclined to the belief that the prisoner had gone to 
the office of the deceased with an innocent purpose, 
that he had been violently assailed by Bronk, and that 
he had killed the latter in the heat of passion. Two 
other members of the jury were for a verdict of mur- 
der in the first degree, and one was for absolute ac- 
quittal. The verdict finally reached is a compromise 
verdict. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


271 


After a few instants consultation with Mr. Winslow, 
Mr. Duncan rises and moves that the jury be polled. 
This being done, each juror in turn affirms the verdict 
rendered by the foreman. 

Mr. Duncan then makes the usual formal motion 
for the setting aside of the verdict, as against the 
weight of evidence, and moves for a new ‘trial. 

The Recorder promptly denies both motions. 

The District Attorney, on the ground of the over- 
crowded condition of the City Prison, moves for im- 
mediate sentence. 

The Recorder proceeds to pass sentence : Twenty 
years at hard labor in the State Prison at Sing Sing. 

Instantly the discharged jurors begin to file out of 
court , the District Attorney and his assistants turn to 
leave, and Will Denton, in charge of an officer, is led 
away. In the midst of the confusion, a man, his face 
drawn and ghastly, staggers out of the court-room, 
muttering unintelligible words under his breath. A 
reporter nudges a friend and points out this man as a 
physician who has recently become a celebrity. 

“ Good-morning, Doctor,” is the newspaper man’s 
greeting, as he passes by. 

But the man keeps straight on, never answering , his 
face haggard, his eyes staring wildly before him into 
the distance. 

He is the same man who has watched before the 
court-house throughout the winter night. 


BOOK IV, 


CHAPTER I. 

“ It is certainly most remarkable ! ” 

Twice Henson repeats the exclamation, his fingers 
upon his pulse and ' examining himself anxiously in 
his looking glass. 

“ Most remarkable ! ” he continues, muttering to 
himself. “ The usual symptoms are entirely wanting, 
I do not understand it.” 

He turns away from the glass, very grave and 
thoughtful. Evidently the subject under considera- 
tion is of an unusually difficult and perplexing char- 
acter, for every now and then he gives vent to 
exclamations of annoyance until, finally, impatiently 
thrusting the problem aside, he goes to his table and 
taking up a microscope plunges into his work. And 
yet, the matter which gives him such serious concern 
is quickly explained and would seem, in an ordinary 
way, an easy enough difficulty for a physician to cope 
with. It is this : 

There is something radically wrong with his sleep. 

He has never been a great sleeper ; that is to say, 
he has given himself the habit, hard in the beginning 
but less severe after a time, of passing unusually few 
hours in bed. These hours, however, were well spent, 
his sleep being that of a thoroughly tired man, dream- 
less, sound, invigorating. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


273 


After the Bronk episode, his nights had undergone 
no disturbance : after the death of Mrs. Ward, however, 
a change had suddenly set in. His sleep, he noticed, 
had become broken, restless, uneasy. 

At first he paid little attention to this feature. He 
slept less ; so much the better ! it would only give 
him the more time for work. One cannot, however, 
go on forever working, any more than one can go on 
forever without, eating ; and no one knows this better 
than Henson. Still, the matter did not at first trouble 
him greatly, for he fully anticipated it would right 
itself in a short time. He simply cut down his time 
in bed to five hours, feeling confident that nineteen 
hours work either at his desk, or in out-door exercise, 
would speedily insure him five hours of 'sound rest 
during this limited time given to bed. 

But he had not had them, these five hours, and the 
axiom laid down in the medical books that a pro- 
longed fatigue involves a corresponding exhaustion, 
which nature repairs by means of functional repose, 
had not held good with him. When, after long hours 
of work, at one or two o’clock in the morning, with 
everything still in the house and in the street, feeling 
thoroughly tired out, he went to bed— after undressing 
himself slowly and carefully so as not to dissipate the 
drowsiness that was upon him — he would fall asleep 
about as soon as he touched the sheets. Then, the 
remarkable symptoms manifested themselves. Before 
he had fairly entered upon the night’s repose, he 
would suddenly awake with a start, a sense of suffoca- 
tion upon him, his heart beating violently, the per- 
spiration thick upon his forehead. That was the last 
of his rest for an hour or more, despite the general 


274 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


inclination he felt for slumber. When, at last, he did 
succeed in again dropping off, his sleep was troubled 
and unsatisfactory, usually terminating in the early 
morning by his awakening with the same start, the 
same wild beatings of the heart, the same state of 
causeless excitement and alarm. These symptoms had 
only occasionally manifested themselves — perhaps once 
or twice a week — after the death of Mrs. Ward ; im- 
mediately after the disastrous termination of Will 
Denton’s trial they had shown themselves with greater 
frequency, and this frequency has been steadily in- 
creasing during the past few weeks until, at last, he is 
thoroughly alarmed. The disorder is seemingly grow- 
ing upon him. 

Evidently certain sections of his brain remain 
constantly watchful and active, and it is the surexcited 
condition of these sections that leads to the startled 
awakenings and produces those dreams, which rob 
his sleep of all its virtues. 

And these dreams, they are frightful ! They 
are always the same ; his mind only wanders away 
from Mrs. Ward to drift back to Bronk, and then 
back again to Mrs. Ward, or, perhaps, to young 
Denton. How is it that he dreams of Bronk now, 
after months have gone by during which that old scamp 
has been practically as dead to his memory as he is 
dead in fact? It is just as if he has been resurrected 
by Mrs. Ward. Really, they are most extraordinary, 
these symptoms. 

What is their cause? 

Scientifically, he is able to explain them only in 
one way. His brain, taxed to its utmost during the 
past few months by his experimental studies, which, as 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


275 


they neared the culminating point, have emanded all 
the time closer and more absorbed attention, has been 
further overburdened by the fearful anxiety and 
intense strain in connection first, with Bronk, next 
with Mrs. Ward and, last of all, with Will. Over- 
taxed Nature invariably exacts her penalties ; he is 
paying the penalty in his case. 

What is best to be done? 

Thinking that, perhaps, one of the causes of this 
surexcitability of the brain may lie in the severe men- 
tal work to which he applies himself at night, just at 
the time when instead of further exciting the brain 
he ought to seek in every way to tranquillize it, he 
decides to try a change in his habits. Instead of per- 
forming mental work at night, he will go in for physi- 
cal exercise which, by fatiguing the muscular system, 
will procure him the sleep of the artisan and the 
laborer, who have toiled throughout the day. True 
he cannot very well find means of sawing wood, or of 
dragging heavy bundles of merchandise ; but he can 
start out every night and keep on walking until he 
experiences such fatigue as will effectually put to rest 
this altogether too active brain. 

He tries this plan, only to find, however, that physi- 
cal exercise is of even less good in his case than men- 
tal toil. He succeeds in acquiring the fatigue of the 
artisan and the laborer ; but not their sleep. Going 
into bed, his legs tired out, his feet sore after his long 
and rapid walks through the deserted streets, he ex- 
periences the same sharp awakenings, the same abhor- 
rent dreams, which are breaking him down and driving 
him mad. He tries this plan of physical exercise 
patiently, persisting in it in the hope that it may yet 


2/6 


PHILIP h^:nson, m. d. 


succeed ; but in the end is forced to the conclusion 
that it is absolutely valueless. Physically tired out, 
he does not sleep one whit the better than after a 
night spent deep in his books, or bent over his micro- 
scope in some close and exhausting study. 

The worst of it is, he can detect in himself no trace 
of any of the causes from which insomnia usually 
springs. He is suffering neither from meningitis, nor 
encephalitis, nor is there anything to indicate the 
formation of a cerebral tumor; he is not anaemic; 
does not suffer from neuralgia, on any acute or 
chronic affection ; he eats well and for some time past 
has touched neither coffee, nor alcohol — in a word, 
apart from this marked cerebral surexcitability, he is 
in sound health. 

And yet the fact remains that for a long time past 
he has not slept properly ; and a man who for a long 
time past has not slept properly is certainly in a very 
bad way. He must seek by every means to assuage 
this cerebral excitement and restore once more natural 
and refreshing sleep. There are a number of remedies 
applicable in cases of insomnia, and these remedies he 
makes up his mind to apply. He begins with 
bromide of potassium ; but in spite of the hypnotic 
properties of this drug it exercises no beneficial effect. 
Bromide of potassium having failed, he next tries 
chloral which, according to ordinary rules, must after 
a few days use produce a decided tendency to sleep ; 
but after quite an extended trial of the chloral, he is 
surprised to find that it has proved of no greater 
efficacy than the bromide. Then, he proceeds to a 
very radical and heroic measure ; he tries hyperdermic 
injections of morphine. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


277 

It is not without certain misgivings that he takes 
this step, both the bromide and the chloral hav- 
ing failed so completely. Chloral is considered to 
produce a calmer sleep than morphine and, therefore, 
it would not be surprising if the injections of morphine 
in turn failed to accomplish the desired result. This 
time, however, better success attends his efforts, for 
after the use of the morphine he secures several 
nights of undisturbed rest. 

But he is too well conversant with the consequences 
attendant upon the continued use of morphine to 
keep up these injections 'longer than is absolutely 
indispensable. After a short time, therefore, he seeks 
to discontinue them ; the result is, a return at once to 
the old condition ; sleep again forsakes him. He 
resumes the injections, in increased doses, as the 
quantities first employed begin to lose their effect, 
and sleep returns. At the end of a certain time, what 
he has foreseen sets in ; he notes in himself a rapidly 
increasing loss of flesh ; his appetite is gone ; there is a 
marked decrease in muscular force, as also in moral 
energy ; his face acquires a peculiar pallor and is 
beginning to assume the expression characteristic of 
morphomaniacs. Then it is that he halts in alarm. 

If he continues, he will in a short time become 
helplessly addicted to the morphine habit, and will 
fall into that condition of physical and intellectual 
apathy which will rob him of the power to resist 
absorbing further doses of the drug, the continued 
use of which leads in the end to such appalling results 
—loss of the intellectual faculties, will, memory, 
judgment, and finally culminates either in paralysis, 
or suicidal mania. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


278 

Morphine certainly ^assures him a very desirable 
night’s rest ; but its continued use is decidedly not to 
be thought of ! 

Let him, on the other hand, discontinue it and the 
sleepless nights, or the nights filled with those dreams 
more exhausting than sleeplessness itself, return. 

A fearful alternative seems to face him; either 
suicidal mania as a result of the morphine habit, or 
insanity in consequence of chronic excitability of the 
cerebral organs. 

What a prospect ! 

Between certain destruction by morphine and the 
other alternative, which is as yet only a possibility, 
there can be no hesitation ; the morphine must be 
renounced at once. 

This resolution he carries into effect, and the old 
trouble recommences. Is it not most exasperating 
and more than extraordinary, he thinks to himself at 
times, that a man who has seen so many corpses, and 
who has handled and dissected so many of them, 
should of all the number have only two constantly 
before his eyes, and that these two should bother him 
so frightfully that night after night he should dream 
of nothing but Bronk, sunk back in his chair, weltering 
in his blood, or Mrs. Ward stretched pale and motion- 
less on her bed. If now and again his mind wanders 
away from these ghastly objects, it is only to turn to a 
subject no less distressing — Will Denton, behind the 
bars of his cell, garbed in the hideous stripes of a con- 
vict. 

These are the thoughts that run through his head, 
as having concluded the work upon which he is 
engaged, he resumes the consideration of his own case. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


279 


The clock on the mantel tinkles the half hour, and a 
pleased expression comes into his face as he glances 
at the timepiece and notes that the afternoon has 
already slipped around as far as this and that it is now 
half-past three. At four he is to' visit Mrs. Denton, 
whose feeble condition has led him to attend her 
almost daily of late, and he will see Agnes. The 
mere anticipation of this meeting is enough to cause 
him to brighten perceptibly ; his thoughts at once 
take a more buoyant and hopeful bent. After all, 
things may soon turn for the better ; he may yet 
succeed in getting rid of these two corpses with which 
he has been so sorely afflicted and which have caused 
him such cruel suffering. His experiments are now, at 
last, rapidly nearing their close — less than two weeks 
more will suffice to satisfactorily complete them. 
Then, he can give himself that rest which he so direly 
needs, and which he has up to the present been 
obliged to deny himself in order not to risk losing the 
results of labors so long and so arduously pursued. 
With rest, this excited condition of the cerebral organs 
will surely not fail to be assuaged, and then there will 
be a return to normal sleep and a surcease of these 
hideous nightmares. Nor is this much needed rest all 
that he has to rely upon. With the termination of his 
experiments, he will have far greater leisure than it 
has heretofore been possible for him to enjoy, and 
this leisure time he can spend with Agnes. 

This latter reflection is not inspired by a mere 
impulse of affection, but has in it also a more selfish 
motive. The presence of Agnes, he has found, has a 
decidedly beneficial effect upon him in his present 
disordered condition. Whether this may possibly be 


28 o 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


due to the existence of certain magnetic affinities too 
subtle to analyze and determine, or to other cau^s, he 
does not know, nor do these causes give him much 
concern ; what he does know, however, from practical 
experience — the surest of all tests — is that after an 
evening spent with Agnes he invariably experiences 
a greater sense of calm and well-being and the night 
that follows is invariably passed with greater quietude 
than is his wont to enjoy. Ah, if she were only 
always with him ! With her love and the sunshine of 
her presence surrounding him, he is confident the 
old-time freedom from care of his happier days 
would, in a great measure, be restored to him ; in 
such an atmosphere there would be no room for 
spectres ! 

It is now nearly time to start. He glances at him- 
self once more in the glass, for it has become essen- 
tial nowadays that he keep watch over his personal 
appearance. Ah, how pale he is ! The effects of the 
morphine, not long since discontinued, have not yet 
altogether worn away. Still, as he sets out, his face, 
pale though it be, wears an expression of content and 
as he walks rapidly up the avenue an exclamation 
escapes several times from his lips. 

“ If I only had her with me always ! ” 


CHAPTER 11. 

In the meantime, Agnes has also been glancing at 
the clock and eagerly awaiting the stroke of four. 
Agnes, poor girl, is fairly overwhelmed with trouble of 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


•28 


late. Not only is there the grief inseparable from the 
memory of Will’s unjust fate, but the condition of her 
mother, who has never fully rallied from the sorrow 
over her boy, is at times such as to caus^ her much 
anxiety. Nor is her mother’s case the only one 
arousing her solicitude. With regard to Henson she 
experiences even greater alarm than in connection 
with her mother. 

His condition certainly warrants this anxiety. In 
the old days, never had she had a moment’s fear in 
relation to his health ; when they parted, never had 
she found herself troubled over the question as to how 
she would find him the next time they met ; so sound 
and strong was this lover of hers that it did not seem 
‘possible that ill-health could make any inroads upon 
that hardy frame and powerful physique. Now, how- 
ever, matters were very different. He seemed to be 
almost daily growing paler and more gaunt, and to be 
borne down with a sadness and depression which were 
steadily gaining an increased hold upon him. Why 
was this? Was it not strange that now, when all was 
going so well with him, he should be more gloomy and 
dejected than he had ever been in the days when things 
for him were at their darkest ? The position in his 
profession which his ambition had so ardently sought 
was now fully assured, his medical works were com- 
manding a simply phenomenal sale ; such practice as 
he was willing to cultivate brought him in an income 
largely in excess of his very simple needs ; his experi- 
ments, whose results he admitted reached his fullest 
expectations, were on the point of being given in their 
completed state to the world and could not fail to 
achieve for him widespread renown. What more could 


282 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


he have ? And yet, in face of all this, he was evidently 
worried, unhappy, dejected, ill ! 

To ascertain the causes responsible for this remark- 
able change'which has taken place in him is a matter 
of deep concern to her. From him, personally, how- 
ever, she finds herself unable to gather anything that 
is sufficiently satisfactory to calm her anxiety on this 
score. Whenever her alarm over the appearance he 
at times presents draws from her an agitated inquiry 
as to the causes of his unmistakable ill-being, he 
invariably displays the utmost impatience at any 
broaching of this subject and dismisses the matter 
almost brusquely. 

“ 111 !” he will exclaim, irritably. What makes 
you keep insisting that I am ill. I am not ; I tell you 
there is nothing the matter with me. I am simply a 
little used up as a consequence of* having applied 
myself too closely to my experiments for some time 
past. I have driven myself a little too hard and am 
in what is medically known as a condition of anaemia. 
Really, this seems to me simple enough to understand, 
and I cannot imagine why you should insist upon 
seeking som.e extraordinary and complicated explana- 
tion. You see the same thing every day among 
business and professional men of all kinds ; overwork 
or overstudy will tell upon a man ; what is taken in 
one direction must be paid for in another ; it is the 
law of Nature. Why should it be different with me?” 

She is not in a position to argue this subject with 
him and is compelled to accept what he tells her, but 
secretly she is far from persuaded. She is not blessed 
with any very far-reaching knowledge of medicine, nor 
versed in the symptoms and effects of anaemia, and 


PHILIP HE^ISON, M. D. 


283 


yet she feels convinced that this anaemia is in itself 
alone insufficient to account for these remarkable 
changes alike in appearance and disposition ; for these 
sudden fits of irritability and anger over what are 
apparently mere little nothings ; for this pallor, depres- 
sion and gloom. 

Angry with him because of this reticence, or this 
irritability, she does not for a moment feel ; there is 
too much sorrow, sympathy and alarm in her heart 
for that. Besides, watching him as closely as she 
does, she has not failed to notice the influence which 
her presence obviously exerts upon him ; how in her 
company he visibly brightens and improves, provided 
only she does not put to him irritating questions on 
certain subjects, the precise nature of which subjects 
she has not yet been able to accurately determine, but 
which she strives to the best of her power to detect 
and elude. How she wishes, since it is evident that 
she is of good to him, that she could be oftener and 
longer with him : but between the demands made 
upon her attention by her mother and the time taken 
up by his experiments, their opportunities of being 
together are decidedly limited. 

With professional punctuality, Henson arrives that 
afternoon almost on the stroke of four. She advances 
eagerly to meet him, at the same time anxiously on 
the watch for anything in hfs appearance that may 
indicate a change for the better, or for the worse. 

“Oh — !” she exclaims, as she glances at his face 
and notes the deep pallor which he has himself ob- 
served before leaving the house. The moment the 
exclamation escapes her, however, she suddenly stops 
short, knowing from past experience that any remarks 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


284 

upon his personal appearance are not of a nature to 
please him. 

His face as he came toward her had been brightened 
by a smile, but with her exclamation the smile disap- 
pears and his brows knit : 

“ What is it ? ” he asks, sharply. 

“Nothing— nothing,” she answers, dreading to 
arouse his anger. 

“Why do you say, ‘nothing’!” he continues. 
“What made you exclaim? Why do you not tell 
me ? ” 

“ Well, I was a little startled at seeing you so pale. 
I was wondering if you were not feeling so well to-day.” 

“ What a mania you have,” he exclaims, with 
irritation, “ for wondering about this, that, and the 
other! What do you see in me ? What is there that 
astonishes you ? Come, Agnes, once and for all 
speak out and explain what it is ! ” 

The time has long since gone by when these sudden 
explosions used to surprise and bewilder her. Distress 
and wound her they always do ; but she is careful to 
allow neither her pain nor her distress to appear. 
How irritable, how uneasy, he has grown ! 

“I have probably expressed my meaning badly,” 
she answers, simply. “ I did not mean to vex you ; 
forgive me.” 

This “ Forgive me ! ” cuts him more deeply than any 
reproaches she could possibly make to him. Well he 
realizes that he has nothing to forgive; that she is 
the wronged one and he, the offender. Will he never 
succeed in conquering and keeping down these sudden 
outbreaks, which are as imprudent in his own interest 
as they are unjust toward her ? 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 285 

He takes her in his arms and gently draws her to a 
sear at his side : 

“ It is for you to forgive,” he murmurs, contritely. 

Just as much as he has been harsh and brusque, is 
he now indulgent and caressing. He rests his tired, 
aching head upon her shoulder and whispers low words 
of endearment beside, her ear. Gentle, loving, beauti- 
ful, refined, a very pearl of womankind, what a mad 
and miserable fool he is, he reflects vaguely, to allow 
his wild imaginings and irritated nerves to carry him 
away, and with his brutal manner and uncouth words 
wound this sweet and amiable girl whom his greatest 
aim should be to make happy. And ought not he, 
too, to be happy — happy in the consciousness that she 
has given him her. love, a love above all calculation as 
it is above all price. A subtle perfume disengages it- 
self from her dress and creeps about his nostrils ; the 
soothing, magnetic influence, the sense of peace and 
calm which her presence ever exercises over him is 
strong upon him now. How good it feels to rest his 
throbbing head upon her shoulder. The tired lids 
close over his burning eyes ; his caressing words be- 
come more low and indistinct ; he drops to sleep. 

Tenderly nursing his head upon her shoulder and 
carefully avoiding the slightest movement, so as not 
to arouse the worn out sleeper, she sits looking down 
upon him as he lies in her arms. She notes the deep 
mark, like that of a bruise, under each of the eyes, 
and the lines of fatigue upon the pale, determined 
face. A tear of compassion gathers in her eyes and 
drops upon the sleeper’s hair. Still, she feels infi- 
nitely proud and happy in her sense of possession, as 
she holds him there, in her arms. She looks upon the 


286 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


broad and well-formed forehead and thinks what a 
world of high thought, knowledge and noble aspira- 
tion are encompassed there. The scientific wisdom of 
that brain has already attracted attention throughout 
the land and is destined ere long to revolutionize 
various deep-rooted scientific principles throughout 
the civilized world. And to think that this dear, 
clever head belongs to her ; that she has the privilege 
now, in its tiredness and pain, of nursing it to rest ! 
Was ever woman prouder of her lover than she, or 
had more justly cause to thus be proud? What good 
fortune was hers that she should attract the attention 
of this great man of science — she, a poor, fortuneless 
girl, who knew nothing save how to sing a little and 
love her lover right truly and right well ! 

How long this period of self-gratulation and ecstasy 
might have continued it is impossible to determine, 
for she would certainly have made no effort to arouse 
him however long this peaceful and evidently much 
needed sleep might last. Presently, however, there 
comes along the street two itinerant venders with a 
cart two of that class of vile peddlers who, for some 
incomprehensible reason, are permitted to hawk their 
wares throughout the city to the incalculable injury 
of invalids and the annoyance of the public in general. 
These two venders, as is the practice of these men, 
are vying each with the other as to which can bawl 
and bray the louder. As they pass the house, their 
hideous clamor rouses Henson and he opens his 
eyes. 

Surprised as he is at having thus slept, his awaken- 
ing is unaccompanied by any start, or sudden sense of 
alarm, such as has become so terribly familiar to him 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


287 


of late. He feels strong and much refreshed after 
this sleep — a calm and at the same time natural sleep 
such as he has not enjoyed in many weeks. The 
throbbing in his temples is gone ; his nerves are 
steady ; his mind and judgment clearer; in a word, he 
feels himself once more the man of his happier days, 
and not the man of these recent times which have 
been for him so bitterly, so fearfully hard. 

A deep sigh of relief comes from his overburdened 
heart. 

He glances at his watch. He must have slept, he 
finds, a full hour under this soothing^ influence which 
has been upon him. Ah, if he always had sleep such 
as this ! 

The thought uppermost in his mind prior to his 
dropping into this refreshing slumber comes fluttering 
back : ‘ 

If she were only with him always! 

And why should he not have her always ? Is she 
not already his affianced wife ? Can he not speak the 
words which will shortly make her altogether his own ; 
his^wife in actuality ? 

He leans back against the cushions of the sofa, and 
looks at her long and tenderly. 

“ Listen, little one,” he says, presently, “my experi. 
ments will be finished — fully and satisfactorily con- 
cluded — within ten days from now.” 

“Oh, how good that will be! You need rest so 
much ; you are nearly worn out. 

“ My practice is already as large as I care to have 
it,” he continues, “ for my ambition does not lie so 
greatly in the direction of a large practice and money 
making. My books are bringing- me in unexpectedly 


288 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


large returns ; briefly, I am making more money than 
I know how to use.” 

“ How nice it is to hear of things going well,” com- 
ments Agnes, approvingly. “ It is a pleasure one 
does not too often have.” 

“ I mention these things,” he resumes, “ not to bore 
you with details to many of which I am personally 
very indifferent, but to bring your mind back to a 
certain compact.” 

“ A certain compact ? ” 

“ Yes. If my memory serves me well the compact 
between us was that when my experiments were fin- 
ished, or even ^vhen my affairs took a turn for the 
better, our engagement should terminate as such 
engagements, I believe, usually terminate — in mar- 
riage.” 

She looks down in her lap, her cheeks flushed 
There is a moment’s silence. 

“ You remember my — my — letter? ” she asks, slowly. 

She alludes to the letter which she wrote him, 
within a short time after Will’s conviction, in which 
she referred to the disgrace that had fallen upon her 
family, unjust though it was, and tendered him his 
release. 

“You remember my reply,” he answers, quickly. 

“Yes,” she says, in a low voice; “ I remember the 
brave words you wrote me. How could I ever forget 
them ! ” 

“ Do not let us speak of that,” he rejoins, with a 
slight constraint • “ I want to know when you will fulfil 
the terms of our compact ; that is, if you are still will- 
ing to abide by it and think as much of 
always.” 


me as 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


289 


“ Oh, dearest ! 

“Well, then; when — ?“ 

“Ought we to think of such a question so soon 
after — after — poor Will — ’’ 

“ That misfortune, it seems to me, in itself demands 
that we bind ourselves more closely together for mu- 
tual comfort and support.” 

“ But mamma ; how could I leave her in her present 
state ? ” 

“ Leave her ! There is no question of leaving her ; 
she will come with us, of course. In her condition, it 
would be cruelty itself to leave her; no physician 
would countenance it for a moment ; she has need of 
our utmost care, both yours and mine. It shall be our 
aim to make life bright for her, and as for me, I shall, I 
promise you, spare nothing to make up to her for the 
one she has lost.” 

“Oh, Philip, you are the best, the most generous of 
men ! How you will be blessed, venerated, wor- 
shipped ! ” 

Venerated, worshipped ! He winces and a slight 
tremor passes over him. There is a moment’s pause, 
and then, having recovered himself, he bends toward 
her once more and with gentle insistence urges her to 
name the day of their marriage. At last she settles 
upon a day in the early Summer, more than two 
months off. Months ! and he can barely wait weeks, 
his need of her is so great. He renews his insistence, 
and unable to withstand his ardent persuasion, she 
finally consents to a day early in the coming month. 

At once he is all brightness and gayety, in the first 
great joy of this concession. He returns to the subject 
of her mother and dwells at length upon the plans they 


290 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


will devise for her comfort and happiness. Long he 
dilates on this subject, thinking as he speaks more of 
Mrs. Denton as the mother of Will than as the mother 
of Agnes. 

Do you think we shall ever bring her to forget ? 
he asks. 

“ Forget ! no ; ” is Agnes’ answer. “ Neither she nor 
I can ever forget, but our grief will certainly be tem- 
pered and softened by our happiness — the happiness 
we shall owe to you.” 

Mrs. Denton has always had a great liking for 
Henson, and when Agnes speaks of the joy the news 
of her coming marriage will give her mother, he 
listens to her words with evident keen satisfaction. 
He grows enthusiastic over this pleasure to be con- 
ferred on the sufferer upstairs. 

“ Do you not think,” he exclaims, rising, that as 
her dutiful children we ought to invite her sanction of 
our plans? Since you say it will give her pleasure, 
will you not let me be the first to take the news to 
her? I will go and seek her approval, and,” his voice 
sinking almost to a whisper, “her blessing.” 

With a last, lingering caress, he turns from Agnes 
and bounds up the stairs with the quick, buoyant 
energy of the former days. 

How good it feels, he thinks to himself, this bringing 
joy to others ! 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


291 


CHAPTER III. 

After having occupied himself with the condition 
of Mrs. Denton’s health, and expressed his satisfaction 
at finding her better than she has been for some time 
past, Henson proceeds to broach the subject that so 
largely fills his mind. 

I have a piece of news for you,” he says. 

Mrs. Denton looks up quickly, an anxious light in 
her eyes. Her mind is so full of one subject, to the 
exclusion of all else, that she assumes any news must 
certainly relate to that. He at once, understands the 
meaning of her glance. 

“ It is not of him I have to speak to you to-day,” he 
says, simply, to mention the name being quite unneces- 
sary. 

A shade of disappointment crosses Mrs. Denton’s 
face. ^ 

“ It is of Agnes that I — ” 

“ Do you find anything the matter with her? Is she 
ill?” quickly interrupts Mrs. Denton, ready on the 
instant to take alarm and admitting only the possibil- 
ity of some new calamity. 

“Not at all! Do not be uneasy; there is nothing 
wrong this time, and what I have to say to you will, I 
trust, give you pleasure instead of pain.” 

“You must forgive me,” answers Mrs. Denton, 
relieved, “ if you find me disposed to too readily get 
frightened. We have been so cruelly tried, so un- 
justly 1 ” 

He abruptly breaks in upon these complaints ; 
they jar discordantly upon him at the moment. 


292 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


“ As you will admit,” he exclaims, disregarding Mrs. 
Denton’s last words, “ our engagement has, owing to 
various circumstances, already lasted unusually long. 
We have both,” he continues, with a smile, come to 
the conclusion that we have waited long enough, and 
— assuming we receive your sanction, of course — we 
have planned that our marriage shall take place on the 
third of next month.” 

As Henson speaks, Mrs. Denton’s hands are. seized 
with a trembling which increases perceptibly as he 
proceeds. 

“The third of next month,” she murmurs, bewil- 
dered with the importance of this news, “so soon, so 
soon ! ” 

“ Why wait longer, provided always we have your 
sanction ? ” 

“ My sanction ! You have it together with the 
warmest wishes of a mother’s heart.” 

“ And your blessing? ” 

“ And my deepest blessing.” 

An expression of pleasure passes over Henson’s face. 

“ May she,” pursues Mrs. Denton, “ make as good a 
wife to you as she has been a dutiful, self-sacrificing 
daughter to me. You will then, indeed, have won a 
treasure.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaims Henson, “ I have no fear as to that. 
Good daughters usually make good wives.” 

For a moment Mrs. Denton is silent, evidently ex- 
periencing the pleasure which Agnes has predicted 
this news will bring her. 

A moment later, however, her thoughts seem to take 
a new turn and her face becomes more grave. 

“ What you have just told me,” she says at 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


293 


last, “ has given me so much pleasure that I have 
allowed myself to be carried away. Now, after the 
first great impulse of joy, however, certain thoughts 
come to me which I think it well to consider. You 
are still young, I am no longer so ; at my age it 
becomes one’s duty not to allow one’s self to be carried 
away by desire, hope, infatuation, or other feelings to 
which there is some excuse for younger heads and 
lighter hearts yielding. At my age, it is one’s duty to 
look at things in their true though less inviting light. 
I need not describe to you our position : you are 
already familiar with it. As you know, we have been 
unfortunate, most unfortunate ; disgrace has come to 
us. You, on the contrary, you are one of the fortu- 
nate ones of this world ; you are already a man of posi- 
tion ; soon you will be rich, sought after, probably 
famous. Is it wise*to take to yourself as wife one in 
the position of my girl ? ” 

Henson listens, shaking his head impatiently. 
These are practically the same words that Agnes sent 
to him long ago in her letter offering him his release. 
To the mother he delivers substantially the same 
reply as he has already made to the daughter. 

“ I am not so much speaking on your account,” con- 
tinues Mrs. Denton ; “ for I would hardly presume to 
give you advice ; I am speaking simply in behalf of 
my daughter and seeking to insure as best I can the 
happiness of her future. Think well before you finally 
decide. Reflect as to whether it is not possible that 
in the battle of life you may some day suffer in con- 
sequence of this marriage — not because she will not 
make you happy ; on that point I feel secure but 
because of those miserable circumstances in connection 


294 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


with us. Are you quite sure that should you ever be 
made to suffer in this w^y, you will never regret your 
marriage to Agnes ? I beg of you, I implore you, to 
weigh this carefully and well. Make no mistake ; for 
such mistake would, indeed, be a terrible one. Agnes 
could never withstand any discovery later on of your 
disappointment or regret.” 

“ If that kind of thing is in human nature,” answers 
Henson, firmly, ‘Ht is not in mine, I swear to you.” 

“ As you can imagine, I ask for nothing better than 
to believe you,” rejoins Mrs. Denton. “ I have only 
spoken as I have because I thought it was my duty to 
do so.” 

She comes back with a bound to the joy of this 
marriage, and when she learns from him how matters 
have already been arranged and that she is to have 
her place with them, her cup of happiness is filled to 
overflowing. 

As Henson is leaving and pauses for an instant 
behind the large Japanese screen placed before the 
invalid’s door, he overhears her fervid cry of grati- 
tude : 

“ Oh, God, who hath seen fit to take from me my 
son, how good thou art to send me one in place of 
him whom I have lost ! ” 

Her son ! Willing indeed, is he to become a son to 
this poor woman and, as a matter of fact, he will be 
worth more to her than that unfortunate lad, so -weak 
and incapable. She needs a son upon whom to 
shower her wealth of maternal tenderness! Well, she 
will find him in her son-in-law. Surrounded by com- 
forts and little attentions, and witnessing her daugh- 
ter s happiness, she can hardly fail to herself be 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


295 


happy. In spite of what Agnes has said to the con- 
trary, they will both of them — the mother as well as 
the daughter — in a great measure come to forget the 
cruel fatality of which chance has made them victim. 
In any event, the measure of consolation which they 
will experience will have come through him. He can 
always feel that he has done something ; perhaps, he 
may even say much. 

Comforted by reflections of this nature, he applies 
himself during the next succeeding days to his work 
with a calmness of mind and a serenity of feeling such 
as in a long time past he has not known. His nights, 
too, although not entirely undisturbed at times, never- 
theless show a marked improvement. Decidedly, this 
consciousness of dealing out good to others is a fine 
elixir ! 

At the end of the time he has specified, he brings 
his experiments relating to the treatment of necrosed 
tissue in cases of tuberculosis, as also those in regard 
to the treatement of cancer in its earlier stages, to a 
close, and makes them public. His discoveries attract 
the widest attention, as also boundless discussion, 
being warmly applauded in some quarters and sharply 
criticised in others. Apart from a few prejudiced 
ones in the professional world, however, it is on all 
sides conceded that he has assisted the science of the 
day in making several important steps in advance, and 
that he has created for himself a lasting name in the 
history of medical progress. 

The first excitement incidental to the making public 
of his discoveries over, Henson thrusts aside his books 
and his work and energetically busies himself in 
making preparations for his marriage. The first care 


296 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


that devolves upon him is the securing of a desirable 
house, and for some days the scientist finds himself 
converted into the house-hunter. Finally, in Madison 
Avenue, he hits upon v/hat he regards as a suitable 
residence, and Agnes and he go over the house together. 
His selection having met with her approval and it 
having been decided that they will take the house, 
Henson requests her to map out the uses to which 
the various apartments shall be put. When it comes 
to the choosing of the sleeping apartments, Agnes 
selects the largest and handsomest room for their 
mutual use, having only in mind that he is to occupy 
it. In this arrangement, however, he interferes. The 
largest and brightest apartment, he declares, must be 
reserved for her mother, to whom in every case the 
best they have must be given. 

When they come to make an estimate of the ap- 
proximate cost of the furniture, Agnes is somewhat 
aghast over the figures of the total. Can they as yet 
afford so heavy an outlay? she exclaims. 

“Yes; I think we can manage it,” answers Henson, 
“ and you may depend upon it that whatever we buy 
will be paid for in cash. There is no danger of my 
ever being tempted to again try the credit plan. The 
first experiment in that line,” he adds, in a savage 
tone, “ cost too dear ! ” 

Their marriage takes place on the day arranged, 
the ceremony being performed by the pastor of the 
church uptown with which Agnes has long been con- 
nected. The ceremony is necessarily, in view of the 
recent distressing happening in the Denton family, a 
very quiet one, and owing to Henson’s pressing en- 
gagements in town, as also to the present feeble con- 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 297 

dition of Mrs. Denton, the bridal trip is limited to 
one short week. How happy is he during this brief 
trip, with this sweet companion who watches over 
him so tenderly and loves him so well ! His days are 
full of serenity ; his nights free from the anxiety and 
terror by which he has so long been haunted. For 
him, he .feels, there is only one danger — solitude. 
From this she will save him, and with her brightness, 
her sunny temperament, her beauty and her love 
keep back dark thoughts from him and prevent those 
hideous spectres of the past from gathering about his 
bed. In future, he will be secure. 

This short and happy trip at an end, they return to 
the Madison Avenue house, where Mrs. Denton is al- 
ready installed. Before another week has passed they 
have fairly settled down into their new course of life, 
and Henson experiences the comforts of a well 
regulated domestic interior. It is on the eighth day 
after their return that he meets with the first check 
in this new-found happiness. On that day, coming 
home to dinner somewhat earlier than usual, he dis- 
covers Agnes and her mother in a condition of tear- 
fulness and gloom. They have, he finds, received a 
letter from Will, which is one long strain of lament. 
He complains of his health, of the harshness of the 
warders, of the undue severity of the prison routine, 
of the character of the task to which he is assigned ; 
in a word, of everything. 

“ My poor boy ; my poor boy ! ” Mrs. Denton keeps 
repeating, in an agony of grief. 

The dinner passes off quite dismally, all three 
being engrossed with their respective thoughts, and 
during the evening the conversation almost entirely 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


298 

relates to Will. From time to time Henson notices 
Agnes and her mother exchanging glances of mutual 
condolence and pity. These sorrowful looks and 
meaning glances fill him with a sense of oppres- 
sion and ill-ease, and he retires to his work-room on 
the plea that there are certain matters demanding his 
attention. He works further into the night than has 
been his wont of late, and when, finally, he goes to 
bed, he tosses and turns for some time before sleep 
comes to him. 

Early that morning, shortly after daybreak, Agnes 
is awakened by a sense of some noise or commotion 
going on about her. Quickly opening her eyes, she 
beholds Henson, the perspiration thick upon his fore- 
head, writhing and twisting in the bed. His features 
are sharply contracted and low moans and half 
articulate sounds issue from his throat. Before she 
can recover from the first shock of her surprise and 
alarm, and arouse him from what she conceives to be 
some horrible nightmare, he suddenly awakens, with a 
great start, and a loud, long, half-smothered cry. His 
start has jerked him into an upright position in the 
bed and he sits glaring wildly about him. Suddenly, 
as he sees her frightened looks turned upon him, into 
his face there comes an expression of deepest horror 
and alarm. Then, his bloodshot eyes staring fiercely 
into hers, his face working hideously, the perspiration 
streaming down forehead, neck and temples, from his 
cracked and swollen lips comes a wailing, terror- 
stricken cry : 

“ Agnes— MY God !— MY God ! Have I spoken? 
—What have I said ? ” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


299 


CHAPTER IV. 

The second Sunday after their return, Agnes meets 
with a surprise over which she ponders for many a day 
without being able to arrive at any satisfactory con- 
clusion. 

The breakfast over, she has gone to her dressing- 
room, where Henson shortly afterward follows her: 

“ What do you propose doing to-day?” he asks. 

“ Nothing in particular ; why ? ” 

“ At what time do you start for church ?” 

She looks up quickly, unable to repress a gesture of 
surprise, and he, as is always the case when she scruti- 
nizes him too closely, at once shows signs of impatience. 

“ Is my question such an extraordinary one,” he ex- 
claims, “ that you look at me like that ? ” 

“No,” she answers, smiling, “but it struck me just 
at the moment that church matters are a somewhat 
unusual subject to occupy your attention.” 

“ Possibly ; but I do not forget that others may 
have different habits and views from mine, which I 
desire in every way to show an interest in and to re- 
spect. Is not this simple enough ? ” 

“ Everything that is considerate and good is simple 
to you.” 

“ Well ; whenever you are ready to start, let me 
know. I will accompany you.” 

“You mean to attend the service with me?” she 
asks, almost incredulously. 

“Yes; I think I will go with you,” he answers, 
abstractedly. “ It looks respectable to be seen at 
church.” 


300 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


He walks to the window and stands there for a 
moment looking into the street. 

“ What dress are you going to wear?” he asks, pres- 
ently, turning around. 

“ The one on the chair, unless you wish me to wear 
some other one.” 

“ It is too plain, it seems to me. Why not wear 
that black silk dress, the one with the jet, and your 
furs. That will look more important, more impos- 
ing.” 

Important! Imposing! What curious words to 
hear from his lips I How strange, too, that he who 
has always been so outspoken in his ideas and uncom- 
promising in his views should speak of appearing at 
church because it “ looks respectable I ” This pecul- 
iar mixture of worldly and religious cares she finds 
most remarkable in him whom she has hitherto 
known alike ‘as a bohemian and an agnostic. 

“Very well,” she answers, not venturing to let her 
speculation become too apparent ; “ I will be ready by 
half-past ten. I will begin my preparations now, so 
that there will be no fear of your being kept wait- 
ing.” 

He goes with her to church and sits patiently 
throughout the somewhat lengthy services. On their 
way home instead of mercilessly dissecting the ser- 
mon, as she has anticipated, and ironically criticising 
it from various standpoints, he refers to it as an in- 
structive discourse which he has listened to with 
much interest. In fact, he is far more enthusiastic on 
this score than Agnes, herself, who finds that the ser- 
mon was really somewhat below the average. In 
future, he declares, he shall make a point of accom- 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 30I 

panying her to church. Would it not be well to make 
arrangements to secure a pew ? 

Can it be, she asks herself, that up to this day 
she has entirely misunderstood him ? Church goin-g, 
pews, dress and fashion she has hitherto imagined 
were subjects exceedingly remote from his mind. 
Perhaps, she reasons, this new line of actj^on is merely 
a concession made to please her, and to show in the 
beginning of their married life that he seeks to be as 
tolerant of her views and tastes as she has always 
shown herself toward his. 

If this be his idea, he certainly pursues it with a 
vengeance. 

Before their marriage, as she well knows, Henson’s 
life has been almost of an ascetic character, given up 
entirely to study and research, his social relations be- 
ing of the simplest and most limited kind. In this 
mode of life she has never had any reason to antici- 
pate that their marriage will effect any radical change , 
married, she has always imagined, he will continue to 
live and to work much about the same as before. 
As far as his work is concerned, her anticipations are 
realized ; in all other respects her calculations, she 
finds, are widely astray. Soon after the return from 
their wedding trip, he suddenly develops decided 
social ambitions, which he follows up with a determin- 
ation and energy that fairly astound her. Babcock 
Taylor, whom she well knows Henson in his heart 
despises, is all at once admitted to friendliest inti- 
macy and is their frequent guest, and through him 
several important social introductions are secured. 
Henson’s now widely-known name, and the constant 
references to his discoveries in the public prints, render 


302 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


him a suitable subject for “ lionizing, and with little 
difficulty an entree is secured into various decidedly 
exclusive social sets. 

Great, indeed, is her wonderment when she sees 
him put aside his work and leave everything to take 
his place at some fashionable dinner table, or to 
attend some social gathering where he is perhaps 
called upon to entertain for an hour or more some 
frivolous butterfly of fashion with whose nature or 
ideas he certainly can have not one interest in com- 
mon. 

To these dinners and parties and receptions he inva- 
riably insists upon her accompanying him, evincing an 
active interest in her toilettes and her jewels, and filled 
evidently with a strong desire that she should attract 
attention and achieve social influence and prominence. 
The various social favors of which they are the re- 
cipients necessitate, of course, a return in kind, and 
Agnes is compelled at frequent intervals to give din- 
ners and parties on a more or less elaborate and 
brilliant scale. Before long she finds her time taken 
up with the usual wearisome routine of a society 
woman’s life — a routine for which, to tell the truth, 
she experiences no very strong inclination or taste. 

And he, she reflects at times, what pleasure can he 
discover in donning a dress coat and going forth into 
the world after a day, a hard day, spent in consulting 
room or study — he, the serious man of science, his 
mind bent on great problems, to whom the vapid life 
of society, which fills even her with contempt, must 
seem empty, vain and silly indeed. 

Nor is his interest confined alone to society matters. 
He seems also to take a more or less active interest in 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


303 


the field of politics, for he has joined a certain powerful 
political organization to whose various funds, as also to 
that of the district organization, he contributes with a 
liberality calculated to attract remark in one who cer- 
tainly seeks no political office nor political favor of 
any kind. Why this great change in his life? To 
put this question openly she does not dare, in view of 
the extreme irritability he displays over any inquisi- 
tion of this nature ; and when with much diplomacy 
and careful leading up to the point she seeks some 
light on the subject, she can never succeed in adduc- 
ing anything more tangible or satisfactory than the 
decidedly vague and indefinite reply : 

“ We must get around — be seen — known.’’ 

And why? she asks herself. Is it on her account, 
because she is the sister of a convict and he wishes 
to force her upon society and compel her to be 
received on terms of equality and respect ? This 
she could to a certain degree understand, although 
it was certainly the cruelest role she could have 
been called upon to fill, and the last she would have 
undertaken were matters left to her own choice. 

In any event, however, this explanation, she feels, is 
not a true or sufficient one. He, because of his mar- 
riage to her, is not the brother of a convict, nor can he 
be considered as affected by any family disgrace, and 
yet, observing him closely, one would be ‘led to the 
idea that in his relations with persons of high position 
and far-reaching influence in the social or political 
worlds what he seeks is to borrow, in a certain sense, a 
part of their importance, power and prestige and wrap 
it about himself. And yet, of this importance, popu- 
larity, or power attaching to others he certainly has no 


304 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


need ; for he himself is somebody, occupying a high 
and distinctive place in the social fabric. His name is 
widely known and respected ; it will eyen live in gen- 
erations to come, when that of most of these others 
will have passed away and have been forgotten. 

Yet, he seems to utterly fail to recognize this, or to 
feel that he himself has attained any position of dis- 
tinction and commanding respect, and appears to find 
gratification in petty matters really quite beneath a man 
of his seriousness of purpose and high merit and attain- 
ments. His avidity for the acquaintance and friend- 
ship of men of prominence and influence, regardless of 
their personal qualities, is an instance in point, as also 
his evident pleasure in seeing his name mentioned in 
the newspapers — formerly a matter of such supreme 
indifference to him — in connection with theirs, or in 
relation to some more than ordinary notable social 
entertainment, given either at his house, or in which 
he has taken part. It was as if, like certain parvenus, 
he felt no sense of confidence in his own position and 
worth, and experienced a certain delight in seeing the 
fact referred to and recorded that he was a man of 
weight and standing in the community, the associate 
and friend of men of respectability, solidity and prom- 
inence. 

All this is in such striking opposition and contrast 
to his former tastes, views,- ideas and habits, so differ- 
ent- from all she formerly knew in him, that she cannot 
help feeling a sense of bewilderment, nor, strive as she 
will, can she resist speculating long and earnestly as to 
the causes which have led up to these great and radi- 
cal changes. To resist this tendency to speculate and 
criticise, she firmly and honestly tries ; for one cannot 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


305 


gladly criticise those one loves, and love him she does. 
Does it not, she asks herself, show a certain lack of 
faith, confidence and respect in her affection not to 
follow him blindly, unquestioningly, in everything, and 
to admire him in all? At times, when her thoughts 
most trouble her and her perplexity is deepest, she 
puts everything aside and goes to him, confident 
that in his presence all unpleasant thoughts will be 
swept away. At first, with the idea of subjecting him 
to a pleasant little surprise, she would enter the apart- 
ment in which he was at work, on tiptoe, and creep- 
ing up silently behind him, without his having seen 
on heard her, would throw her arms about his neck, 
and kiss him. This action on her part, however, 
had given him such a violent start, had caused him to 
betray such annoyance and fear, that she had not 
ventured to repeat it. 

“Why do you come upon me like that?” was his 
angry exclamation. “ What were you watching me 
for? What is it you are trying to find out? ” 

Instead of becoming ill-humored, sullen and resent- 
ful, as would doubtless have been the case with a 
woman of less generous, less broad, less loving and 
less lovable disposition, Agnes readily forgives this 
passing irritability and finds excuses for it in the over- 
wrought condition of his system, incidental to the 
severity of the work, he is called upon to cope with. 
Poor dear, what a terrible condition his nerves are 
in ! She does not discontinue her visits, but simply 
changes her methods of approach ; and then, he 
receives her pleasantly, gladly, a smile on his lips. 

“ You have come to sit with me while I work, little 
one?” 


3o6 


PHILIP HENSON, M D. 


“Yes, dearest: if you are sure I shall not disturb 
you r 

“Not at all; please sit down. I am never so com- 
fortable, I never work so well, as when you are near 
me.” 

It is true ; she sees and feels it. The mere fact 
that shfe is near him, whether she be speaking to him 
or simply remain silent, makes him happy and causes 
his face to take on a brighter and more pleasant look. 
One condition, however, she must observe. She must 
not look at him too hard, with the apparent object of 
watching him closely ; for, whenever she did this, 
as was the case in the earlier days of their marriage, 
he would grow impatient and angry, just as when she 
crept up upon him from behind and sprang upon him 
unawares. 

“What are you watching me for?” he would ask. 
“ What is it you are trying to find out? ” 

As long as she observes this one condition, and 
there are no curious looks, no imprudent questions, he 
is happy. Many pleasant hours are thus passed 
together, he occasionally looking up from his work 
with some kindly or endearing word, or even stopping 
at certain intervals to chat with her lightly over some 
mutually interesting topic. She would gladly spend 
her days, uninterrupted, in this sweet intimacy, but 
toward night, whenever it comes time to go forth into 
the world, all is broken in upon. 

“Come,” he exclaims, rising, and with the air of a 
man who has a duty to perform ; “ we must begin to 
get ready ; we must go.” 

And she does not dare to ask him the reason of 
this: “We must.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


307 


CHAPTER V. 

Although she dare not put the question frankly 
and openly : “ Why must we go out ? ” any more than 
she dare ask various other questions, such as : “ Why 

must we let ourselves be seen at church because it 
looks respectable? — Why do we court the acquaint- 
^ance of people whom we really do not esteem, or like, 
simply because they are prominent and stand well in 
the world ? — Why do we burden ourselves with tire- 
some social obligations for which neither of us have 
any great inclination or taste, instead of living more 
for ourselves and enjoying the sweet privacy of life at 
home?” — although she dare not openly seek from him 
an answer to these questions, yet she cannot prevent 
their frequently recurring to her mind and striving of 
herself to find their solution. 

Were it simply matters of this nature, however, she 
might succeed in dismissing them from her mind as 
subjects, after all, of no very vital importance. She 
might bring herself to the conclusion that having 
accomplished in a large measure the work to which he 
has devoted so much time and effort, and attained the 
position and ends he has sought, he is now of the 
opinion that it is well to emerge from the seclusion of 
the student and, becoming more of the world, taste 
some of the enjoyments which success and celebrity 
bring. But this line of reasoning is quite insufficient 
to explain all that is strange and inexplicable around 
her. It is not merely a matter of abrupt and decided 
changes in ideas, methods, -and ways of living ; there 
is a good deal more than this. How account for the 


3o8 


PHILIP HENSON, M.D. 


far more startling and extraordinary changes in tem- 
perament, disposition and the whole nature of the man ? 

If she had only known her husband for a compara- 
tively short time before their wedding-day, she might 
be led to the belief that he had always been such as he 
now is ; but this is not the case with her. During 
their long engagement she has had ample opportunity 
of learning to know him well, and her husband of 
to-day is as different from her lover of the old days as 
two distinct and separate beings. 

And yet, it is certainly not marriage that has ef- 
fected these astounding changes; nor, as a matter of 
fact, do these changes precisely date back to the period 
of their marriage. Their beginning had been prior to 
that, although it was not until more recent times that 
they had so accentuated themselves as to stand out in 
boldest and most marked relief. 

Going carefully back over the past, she finds she is 
able, in a great measure, to recall and trace the be- 
ginning of these changes. Her first recollections of 
his character present to her the impression of a calm, 
steady, firm disposition ; full of courage, determina- 
tion, energy ; singularly free from petty weaknesses 
and flaws. The first time, she remembers it very dis- 
tinctly, that she had seen his habitual calmness and 
self-reliance give way, and despondency, doubt and 
agitation come over him, was the day he disclosed to 
her the financial troubles which beset him and the 
dangers which threatened alike his career in New York 
and the success of his experiments. The agitation he 
had then displayed, however, was nothing more than 
natural ; it was the honest grief and despair of a man 
who, owing to the weight of cruel misfortune, sees 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


309 


himself threatened with defeat and ruin at a moment 
when deserved success is almost within his grasp. 
Nothing could be more reasonable, or readily under- 
standable than that. The only little surprise she had 
experienced was when he made reference to the idea 
of strangling Bronk, and, in that connection, gave ex- 
pression to the somewhat startling assertion that mere 
conscientious scruples, alone, had not deterred him in 
the matter, since as an intelligent man he did not 
believe in either conscience, or remorse. This, how- 
ever, was nothing more than the expression of a philo- 
sophical theory, of course; merely a few words spoken 
lightly, or to provoke discussion, and not for a mo- 
ment to be taken seriously, or as an indication of a 
perverted moral nature. 

Freed from his difficulties through the money won 
at Saratoga, he had recovered his wonted tranquillity 
and for some time yet had continued to be the man 
she had always known him. It was during the weeks 
immediately preceding Will’s trial that the beginning 
of the change had really set in. Then it was that had 
begun that acute irritability, those sudden fits of anger, 
that uneasiness and unrest which had puzzled her much 
at the time and had at intervals worried her so much 
since. At that period she had ‘attributed these symp- 
toms largely to anxiety over Will’s case, in which he so 
actively and so generously interested himself ; and yet, 
upon more mature consideration, there were certain 
pronounced inconsistencies in this theory which pre- 
vented its being accepted as a fully satisfactory one. 
Why, for instance— if Will’s case were the only cause 
of his perturbation — why, then, was it that that per- 
turbation presented itself in its strongest form just at 


310 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


the time when, owing to the intervention of Mrs. Ward, 
Will’s chances looked at their brightest ? On the very 
day she had announced to him that Mrs. Ward had 
decided to call him in — which was certainly to be 
regarded as a piece of good news — he had given way 
to a wild outburst of annoyance and anger, as violent 
as it was strange and unprovoked. All this was cer- 
tainly inconsistent with the theory that Will’s case 
was the sole perturbing cause. Then, again, there was 
that other scene that had followed — a scene equally 
strange and inexplicable in its way — when on that 
winter evening, in the little dining-room of the Fif- 
teenth Street house, he had shown himself so pro- 
foundly moved and depressed and had besought her to 
keep strong in her memory the recollection of that 
evening so that she might recall it some day when 
she sought to understand him better; to weigh 
him more closely in the balance, and to judge 
him. 

The words at the time had been uttered almost in a 
spirit of prophetic forecast ; and, now, lo ! the hour 
has come, little as she had ever thought it would, 
when she seeks to do what she then looked upon as a 
species of sacrilege — to understand his motives and 
character more closely, and judge of him from a stand- 
point that is critical. 

How often she has recalled the memory of that 
night, leaving behind it impressions sweet and at the 
same time painful ; less sweet as time goes on; more 
painful and significant as new subjects of uneasiness 
heap themselves one upon the other, and as the sense 
of darkness and mystery about her grow deeper and 
weigh more heavily upon her life. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


3IJ 

Judge him ! Why should she be called upon to 
judge him ? Why, and upon what account ? 

Still, this was with him, evidently, no idle word, 
lightly and unmeaningly spoken ; but, in view of later 
evidences, was rather to be regarded as the more or 
less involuntary expression of an uneasiness of spirit 
which had at various times subsequently manifested 
.tself in other ways. Was it not to this same spirit of 
uneasiness that was attributable his intense abhorrence 
of any sudden surprise, his irritability when he imag- 
ined he was being observed too closely, his nervous 
desire to keep up all the outward appearances of an 
intense respectability and to figure as the intimate of 
the strong, the influential and the rich ? Was it not, 
also, to this same spirit of uneasiness that was to be 
attributed that strange, weird, horrified cry as he rose 
out of his sleep — that startled cry : “ Have I spoken ; 
what have I said ? ” 

To the existence of this spirit of uneasiness within 
him numerous other circumstances strongly and sig- 
nificantly point ; his abnormal sensitiveness ; his annoy- 
ance over any questions- which he conceives to be of a 
prying nature ; his marked irritation over any action 
behind which he imagines there may lurk any undue 
inquisitiveness and, finally, his abrupt transitions, after 
angry outbursts superinduced by these causes, to a 
spirit of conciliation and tenderness — transitions so 
abrupt as to suggest that they are dictated less by a 
natural impulse than with a set view of destroying the 
effect of the previous words uttered. 

It is long before she can bring herself to admit cal- 
culation beneath certain of those tender words which 
make her so happy; but in the end, under the weight 


312 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


of the evidence thrust upon her, she is forced to the 
conviction that at times they are simply inspired 
by that paramount idea which seems to pervade so 
many of his actions — PRECAUTION NOT TO BETRAY 
HIMSELF. 

And what is this dreaded Something which he so 
greatly fears to betray ? 

Ah, there all her speculations, all her ideas, come to 
a dead stop, with the abruptness of one who comes to 
a halt against a stone wall. What this mysterious 
Something may be, she can form no conception, nor 
does she make any voluntary effort to form such con- 
ception, for she holds that her duty as a loving and 
devoted wife makes it incumbent upon her to set aside 
any attempts at watching, or prying, in the effort to 
learn more than it is desired she should know, and 
this duty is fully in accord with the inclinations 
inspired by her devotion and her love. Still, however 
great may be her loyalty, and strong her inclination 
to follow out the dictates of that loyalty, she can- 
not close her eyes and ears to all that goes on about 
her, nor prevent her harassed thoughts from dwelling, 
without any positive volition on her part, upon sub- 
jects and incidents that strike her sharply as mysteri- 
ous, strange and utterly incomprehensible. 

And these subjects and incidents which impress her 
so acutely and so unpleasantly all turn more or less in 
the same groove and relate more or less directly to 
the same events and persons : 

Any mention of Bronk’s name appears to jar upon 
and irritate him ; 

References to Mrs. Ward worry and annoy him ; 

To speak of Will seems to give him positive pain. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 313 

Having made these observations, and verified their 
accuracy by actual experience, the question forces 
itself upon Agnes as to what inferences they may lead 
to. To this question no answer presents itself to her. 
These observations suggest to her nothing in the solu- 
tion of that which she finds mysterious encircling her : 
simply and absolutely nothing. That any reference 
to Bronk, Mrs. Ward, or Will troubles him, she 
knows. Why this should be so — all is blank ! 

As far as Bronk and Mrs. Ward are concerned, hav- 
ing discovered the effect these names have upon him, 
it would be possible for her to guard against their 
being referred to in his presence ; but with regard to 
Will’s name, she cannot, nor is she willing, to put this 
rule in force. How could she ask her mother not to 
pronounce the name of the dear one who so constantly 
fills their thoughts ; how could she herself check the 
utterance of that name when it comes upon her lips ! 

His annoyance over references to Bronk and Mrs. 
Ward, it occurs to her at times, might possibly be 
explicable on the score that these names recall un- 
pleasant memories in connection with the events 
which led up to Will’s deplorable fate. This explana- 
tion, however, could- not reasonably be applied to the 
latter’s case, especially in view of the fact that Henson 
constantly occupies himself with matters pertaining to 
Will’s welfare, in relation to the amelioration as far as 
is possible of his position. It has come to her knowl- 
edge that he has spent quite considerable sums in 
payments to minor officials connected with the prison 
to influence their treatment of the prisoner, as also 
that he has sought to bring political influences to bear 
to secure in time, if not a pardon, at least a mitigation 


314 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


of the term of imprisonment. Why one who has 
l^ibored so earnestly and so zealously in another’s 
cause should so- intensely dislike any reference to this 
object of his good offices makes the matter more 
incomprehensible than ever. 

Owing to the favors secured to the prisoner through 
Henson’s efforts, he has opportunities of sending let- 
ters home somewhat oftener than is allowed under a 
strict enforcement of the prison rules. The letters 
thus received almost invariably contain some reference 
or narration absolutely heartrending alike to mother 
and sister, and for some days after their receipt de- 
pression and gloom reign within the house. As for 
Henson, the sight of this sorrow, of these tears, which 
they vainly seek to hide from him — they seem to dis- 
turb and agitate him to the last degree. 

“What would you do if he were dead?” he asks 
Agnes. 

“ Would he not be less to be pitied ? ” 

“ At any rate, he will come back to you some day.” 

“But in what condition?” 

“ What can be done in face of the inevitable ? ” 

“We simply weep ; we are not complaining.” 

But he, he complains bitterly of the pitiful faces he 
sees about him, of these tears they try to hide from 
him, of the half-smothered sighs he hears only too 
plainly. Ordinarily, he is very gentle and affectionate 
in his bearing toward Mrs. Denton, so full of defer- 
ence and little attentions, in fact, that his zeal to be 
agreeable seems at times a trifle artificial and over- 
acted, and as if more the outgrowth of a systematic 
effort than a spontaneous and natural expression of 
feeling. At these times, however, he forgets his usual 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 315 

gentleness and becomes harsh and abrupt to such an 
unusual degree with her that, at last, Mrs. Denton 
notices and comments upon it to Agnes. 

“ How is it,” she asks, “that your husband, who is 
usually so good to me, becomes so impatient about 
anything relating to our dear Will? One might 
almost be led to think that our sorrow was a sort of 
reproach which we make against him personally.” 

One day, when matters have gone somewhat further 
than usual, she ventures upon an explanation : 

“Forgive me for imposing our sorrow upon you,” 
she says, “but when I complain over my boy and 
murmur against the world and things in general, you 
surely understand that I always except you — you who 
did everything to save him.” 

To her unbounded surprise, these conciliatory 
words have just the opposite effect from that intended. 
Instead of soothing his irritation, they seem to put 
him almost beyond himself. For an instant, he glares 
at her almost fiercely and, then, rising abruptly he 
hurries from the room. 

“ I confess I do not fully understand your husband,” 
she remarks to Agnes, later on. “ Will you not tell 
me what it is that is wrong?” 

How answer this question of her mother — a ques- 
tion which she cannot answer for herself! All that 
her mother comments upon, she has already for a long 
time past seen and heard and pondered over, and ever 
without result. Of what use this worrying and won- 
dering ; why not accept matters as they are ? Why 
seek to obtain any light upon that which he strives so 
hard to cover? Likely enough, no good would come 
to him, or her, from the knowledge acquired ; perhaps. 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


316 

even, she would regret and possibly suffer for what, 
after all, might be only culpable curiosity. She must 
stop thinking ; she must endeavor to put an end to 
these feelings of wonderment, these habits of specula- 
tion ! 

Who, however, can absolutely command and control 
the workings and direction of thought ? Despite her 
resolves and aside from any voluntary effort on her 
part, her mind persists in reverting to and busying it- 
self with those subjects by which it is harassed and 
oppressed. This continual harping of the mind upon 
distressful incidents, this long kept up conflict of feel- 
ing, end by exercising their effect upon her. Her 
natural gayety of disposition becomes impaired ; her 
dash, brilliancy and energy are subdued; the hopeful 
courage and sweet effusiveness, formerly so charac- 
teristic of her, fade and in a measure disappear. The 
physical change is quite as strongly marked. Her 
superb color, formerly such an adjunct of her beauty, 
is no longer what it used to be, and her eyes, at one 
time so smiling and full of light, nowadays more often 
suggest anxiety and care than buoyancy and happiness. 

Careful as she believes herself to be in concealing 
everything from Henson, it is not long before he be- 
comes conscious of the change. Finally, one day, he 
suddenly questions her. What is the matter ? There 
is evidently something wrong ! Taken unexpectedly, 
she is unable to make any satisfactory reply at the 
moment. He renews his questions ; she becomes 
uneasy and confusied. During the next few days he 
observes her attentively and at last examines her pro- 
fessionally. He finds nothing wrong; nothing that 
can justify these changes which he detects. 


PHILIP PIENSON, M. D. 


317 


Then, a light breaks slowly in upon him. She is 
concealing something from him. She is not physically 
ill, of that he has convinced himself ; and yet, there is 
something wrong, and it must be something seriously 
wrong for her, whom he formerly read as an open 
book, to have become a troubling enigma arousing his 
anxiety. 

And w'hat can this something be? Ah, what in- 
deed, if not the shadow of that same burden which he 
himself bears and which is crushing him beneath its 
merciless weight ! She has not guessed the truth ; or 
even, perhaps, the slightest fragment of the truth ; 
but, influenced probably by his own actions and words, 
she feels the undefined presence of something dark 
and evil about her and is correspondingly affected. 

What a condition, he bitterly reflects, is his — a con- 
dition well calculated to jmadden the mind and hurl 
Reason from her throne ! 

Nothing to fear from others; everything to fear 
from himself. The outraged Law holds that its debt 
has been paid ; Justice and Society are alike appeased ; 
on all sides there is safety; nothing is sought of him. 
Yet, notwithstanding this, he, with his disturbed brain 
and maddened nerves, cannot be at peace ; he must go 
to raising the dead from their graves, where no one 
thinks of disturbing them, and must conjure up 
spectres which he alone sees, whose presence he alone 
can detect. 

And he has believed in Force and has thought him- 
self strong — possessed of the strength of those who by 
the sheer force of their will go straight to their end, 
looking neither to the right nor to the left, seeing 
nothing but their object before them. Fool that he 


318 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


was, and how mistaken ! Why, he has not even 
learned the meaning of. To Will ! Is he not, in 
reality, a weakling ; of the weakest of the weak? 

Perhaps so ; perhaps not. Perhaps, after all, simply 
human. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The comparative calm which he has enjoyed since 
his marriage Henson owes, as he fully realizes, to 
Agnes; to the moral and physical healthfulness, the 
serenity and peace of which she is possessed. Agnes, 
however, agitated, restless, uneasy, such as she now is, 
can no longer give him what she herself has not, and 
before long he finds a return of the old disordered 
condition; the restless nights; the hideous dreams; 
the sense of prostration and exhaustion by night and 
day. It is just at this point that, owing to certain 
additions to his already important discoveries, he 
reaches the highest pinnacle of material success and 
attains the fullest heights his ambition has craved. 
Slight genuine satisfaction, however, do these suc- 
cesses bring him. What he really longs for, what he 
urgently needs, is the return of his wife to her former 
state of moral and physical well-being — that well- 
being which reacts upon him, dissipating his night- 
mares and banishing the spectres from about his 
bed. 

But her own sleep uneasy and broken, her own tran- 
quillity lost, she can impart to him none of these 
fiercely desired results. On the contrary, it is a share 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 319 

of her fever and unrest she brings him ; not her seren- 
ity and her sleep. 

“ You do not sleep," he says to her one night, after 
both have been restlessly turning for some time. 
“ Why is it that you do not sleep?’' 

He presses for a reply. For some days past he has 
at intervals been plying her with questions, the 
answers to which she has glided over and eluded as 
best she could. He, on his side, on his guard against 
allowing any incautious, or ill-advised utterances to 
escape him, as also fearing to show too much persist- 
ency, has so far been able to glean nothing. 

“ If you cannot sleep,” he continues presently, and 
as if treating the matter entirely from a medical stand- 
point, “ it must be because you are not well. Whence 
proceeds the trouble?” 

I am well,” she insists ; “ I assure you there is 
nothing the matter with me.” 

“ You are mistaken,” he answers; am convinced 
there is.” 

“ Well ; if so, I do not know what it can be.” 

He loses patience at last, in face of this unwonted 
obstinacy. 

I will see that you find out,” he exclaims. “ I 
will see that you tell me.” 

How do you mean ? ” 

“ I will put you to sleep — I will hypnotize you.” 

The threat seems to her such a fearful one that, for 
a moment, she is utterly overcome : 

“ Oh, you will not do that ! ” she cries. 

“ Why not ? ” 

They look at each other for a moment in silence, 
the one almost as much frightened as the other ; she 


320 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


by reason of his threat ; he, by the boldness of the 
admission which has just escaped him. 

“ Why should I not,” he continues, “ exhaust every 
means to find out the causes of this indisposition 
which neither you nor I seem able to discover.^ An 
excellent way to do this would be to allow me to put 
you into the hypnotic state.” 

“ But, I am not ill,” she persists, “ and, besides, 
what could I tell you more than I do now ?” 

“ We should see.” 

“ I beg you, Philip, never to try anything of the 
kind with me.” 

“ What harm could it do ? ” 

“ Who knows ? ” 

“ With any competent operator, accustomed to exer- 
cising this power, you would be perfectly safe.” 

“Yes, but you are not accustomed to exercising 
it.” 

“ Still, I am pretty well versed on the subject; suf- 
ficiently so that you would run no danger in my 
hands.” 

“ No matter; I should be too much afraid.” 

“ Very well,” he answers, apparently abandoning the 
point, ‘‘ I will not insist. It would have been a good 
method to adopt, but since you are so set against it, I 
suppose we must let it drop.” 

Her suspicion is aroused, however, by his having 
yielded so readily and, fearing that he has* not really 
renounced this plan, she is overcome with nervous 
dread. What would she say if he made her talk 
Anything is possible, since, as she has heard, mesmer- 
ism produces an abnormally acute condition of the 
faculties — as in the case of clairvoyants — and she her- 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


321 


self hardly knows what thoughts, as yet not fully 
shaped, may lurk in the depths of her brain. The 
very limited and superficial knowledge she possesses 
on the subject of this mysterious mesmeric art, only 
makes it appear to her all the more uncanny, dark and 
horrible. 

Next day, as soon as Henson goes out, she makes 
her way to his study and hunts through his book- 
cases in search of some volume which will give her 
information on the subject of hypnotism. She cannot 
succeed in finding any specific work on the subject, 
although a number of the books contain more or less 
brief references to mesmerism, animal magnetism, 
hypnotism, etc. She becomes sadly confused over the 
learned dissertations, replete with queer medical 
terms, there given, and when, finally, she has con- 
cluded her researches she finds that she has learned 
little indeed concerning the chief features of which she 
has been in quest. The one point fairly clear in her 
mind is the formula given as that commonly employed 
to induce the mesmeric sleep, namely, to direct the 
subject to gaze at some bright object, such as a piece 
of glass or metal, suspended at a slight eleva1;ion 
above the eyes, while the operator exercises the full 
concentration and power of the will. Ah, she thinks 
to herself, if this be correct, and this formula has to 
be followed out, there is not much danger of her being 
put to sleep. She will take good care not to gaze at 
any bright objects suspended at a slight elevation 
above her eyes. 

Still, she does not feel quite safe, and a few days 
later at a dinner party, finding herself seated beside a 
well-known scientist whom she has heard referred to 


322 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


as an authority on subjects of the kind, she engages 
him in conversation on this topic. 

“ Can a person be thrown into a mesmeric sleep 
against his or her will ? ” she questions. 

“As a rule, no,” is the answer ; ‘'although this 
would largely depend upon the force of the one exer- 
cising the power and the susceptibility of the subject. 
A subject, for instance, who had already been hypno- 
tized a number of times would be very likely to pass 
under control even though he opposed the resistance 
of his will. The oftener the influence is exerted, the 
more powerful it becomes. Formerly it was very 
generally believed among medical men that only certain 
hysterical, weak, or highly nervous organizations were 
really fully sensitive to the influence, but this was 
shown to be a mistake, and to-day it is conceded that a 
large number of sound and quite healthy persons are 
highly susceptible subjects.” 

“ And do you mean to say that all will power is 
lost during this sleep ? ” 

“ Entirely ; provided only the sleep be sufflciently 
deep. In the early stages, that is, when' the influence 
is exerted for the first few times, subjects often retain 
sufificient volition to resist performing actions especially 
distasteful to them, or in violent opposition to their 
natural inclinations, habits and disposition. Thus, an 
honest subject will strongly resist a suggestion im- 
parted to him to rob, or kill. Later on, however, 
when the subject comes more deeply under the influ- 
ence, he is completely in the power of the hypnotizer, 
who makes him laugh or weep, love or hate, at will ; 
in a word, plays with the deepest * feelings of his soul 
as one plays upon the strings of an instrument.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


323 


“ But this is fearful — horrible!” 

“ Very interesting and very curious, to say the least, 
and a matter destined to occupy much attention in 
the not distant future.” 

“After coming out of the sleep, does the subject 
remember what has transpired while under the influ- 
ence ? ” 

“ That, again, depends hpon the degree of the 
influence. Under a light influence, possibly yes : in a 
deep sleep, no.” 

She would gladly continue her investigations 
and fill herself to overflowing with information on this 
question which so sharply touches her interest, but 
at this point the hostess rises from table and, al- 
though Agnes tries hard, she secures no further op- 
portunity of renewing the conversation. 

What she has just learned fills her with terror ; 
more than ever she dreads this occult influence, 
placing one being so utterly at the mercy of another. 
Still, she reflects, consent seems necessary, after all, at 
least in the- primary moves. If this be so, and what 
she has read in the books concerning the glittering 
object suspended above the eyes be true, she is safe ; 
for she will never unresistingly allow herself to be 
hypnotized. 

Relying upon these points, and also somewhat 
reassured by the fact that Henson has not again re- 
ferred to the subject, her fears gradually pass away. 
He knows that he cannot hypnotize her in face of 
her opposition, she thinks, and finding her so resolutely 
opposed, he has given up the idea. 

She is mistaken. 

One night when she has gone to bed, leaving him at 


324 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


work, she suddenly wakes up to find him standing over 
her, his eyes fixed upon her with a concentration and 
intensity that cause her to start up with -a scream. 

“ What is the matter?” she stammers. “ What are 
you doing ? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing. I am simply getting ready to 
go to bed.” 

Bymo means fully reassured, the strangeness of that 
look troubles her and she sleeps little that night. In 
the end, however, she persuades herself that her sense 
of alarm is ascribable to an over-excited condition and 
that, after all, perhaps she was simply startled by 
awakening so suddenly and'unexpectedly finding him 
beside her. 

But a few nights later, she again awakens under a 
sense of oppression and, suddenly opening her eyes, 
she finds him bending over her, his arms outstretched 
about her, as if seeking to draw her to his breast. 
There is the same concentrated look in his eyes ; a set 
determination in his face. Although fearfully shocked 
and frightened, she manages this time to restrain her- 
self and say nothing; but her suffering is none the less 
intense. There can no longer be any doubt of it ; he 
is trying to hypnotize her while she sleeps. Is such 
' a thing possible? Have the books misled her? 

Her fears are well founded. Henson is striving to 
do precisely what she suspects and transform her 
natural into an artificial sleep. As to whether he will 
succeed in this, he is by no means sure ; but he deter- 
mines, in any event, to try the experiment. 

The first time he makes the attempt, instead of 
throwing her into the hypnotic state, she awakens ; 
the second time, he is equally unsuccessful. At the 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


325 


third attempt, she appears to be more susceptible and 
gradually he sees certain indications which lead him to 
believe that she is passing under control. After a 
time, he decides to put the matter to a test. He 
raises her arm. It remains suspended in the air, just 
as he has left it. He tries the other arm, with the 
same result. Then, he imparts a rotary motion to her 
hands and this motion continues until he stops it. 
He looks down at her : she is evidently in a deep 
mesmeric sleep. Her face has taken on an expression 
of happiness and content such as it has not worn in a 
long time past ; she is once more the beautiful Agnes, 
gay and light-hearted, of the olden time. 

He speaks to her on various indifferent topics, she 
answering freely and without reserve. As he does not 
wish to keep her too long under the influence, or to 
try her too severely upon this first occasion, he soon 
brings his experiments for this night to an end. 

“To-morrow,” he says to her, “I will put you to 
sleep again and we will have another talk.” 

She does not offer any opposition to this suggestion 
and, with the usual passes, he restores her to the 
natural state. The following night, at the same hour, 
he again hypnotizes her, this time with much less 
difficulty than before ; but when, presently, he seeks 
to question her too closely upon the subjects upper- 
most in his mind, he finds that she resists him. She 
still retains some portion of her will power, he thinks 
to himself ; it will not do to press her too hard upon 
distasteful subjects until he has acquired a fuller con- 
trol. This control, he well knows, will grow with time. 

After this, he hypnotizes her nightly a number of 
times in succession ; the operation being easier with 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


326 

each new effort, the sleep deeper, his control over her 
greater. During the day he observes her closely and 
is convinced that she knows nothing of what has tran- 
spired during the night, and has no suspicion whatever 
of having been subjected to the mesmeric sleep. 

At last, on the seventh night, he determines to 
bring matters to a head. After having gone through 
the customary passes for some time, and assured him- 
self that she is indeed in a sound sleep, he steps back 
from the bed, prepared for the momentous test in 
which his last remaining hopes of future happiness 
and peace are involved. She has by this time come 
so completely under his control that he can rely upon 
forcing her to disclose her thoughts fully and sincerely 
and without any attempt at misleading, or evasion. 
What will she answer— what is she going to say ? 
His voice trembles with the intensity of his emotion 
as he begins the first of these questions — his future, 
the future of both of them, hangs upon her words. 

He cannot see her face as well as he would as she 
lies there. With a commanding gesture, he causes 
her to rise from the bed and she stands before him 
tall, white, and somewhat weird, her hair falling in dis- 
ordered masses over her shoulders. 

“ Where do you feel pain ? ” he begins. 

‘‘ Nowhere ; I am not ill.” 

In the stillness of the night, her voice sounds 
strangely weak and thin and plaintive; almost like 
that of a little child. 

Why, then,” he continues, “ are you so downcast 
and sad at times. You have not slept well of late. 
What is it that troubles you ? ” 

She hesitates an instant before answering : 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


327 


“ I am afraid.” 

“ Of what ? Of whom ? ” 

“You.” 

He shivers. 

“ Of me ! You surely do not think I would do you 
harm ? ” 

“No.” 

A great weight is lifted from his straining heart. 

“ Why are you afraid then ? ” 

“ Because I see in you things which frighten me.” 
“What things? Describe them.” 

“ The changes which have taken place in your 
manner, your habits, your ways — everything.” 

“Why do these changes frighten you?” 

“ Because they point to something very grave 
behind them.” 

“ What is that Something? ” 

“ I do not know ; I cannot tell.” 

“ Have you ever tried to find out ? ” 

“ No ; I was too frightened. I shut my eyes; I did 
not want to see.” 

“ See what ? ” 

“ The explanation of all the strangeness and mys- 
tery in your life.” ^ 

“ When did you first notice this strangeness, this 
mystery ? ” 

“After the death of Bronk.” 

“ Do you know who killed Bronk?” 

“No.” 

The reaction, the relief he experiences is so great 
that for a moment he is unable to continue. 

“ What did you notice after the death of Bronk?” 
“You suddenly became so nervous, so irritable. I 


328 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


remember how angry you were when I asked you to 
go and see Mrs. Ward. I remember, too, that even- 
ing before her death, when your manner was so strik- 
ing, when you were so sad, and you spoke to me words 
which you bade me not to forget whenever the time 
should come when I should seek to judge you. Judge 
you of what ? I have asked myself. Why should I 
ever be called upon to judge you ? ” 

“ And yet, you see, you have judged me now! ’ 

“ Never. Whenever fear has prompted, love has 
interposed. My love was greater than my fear.” 

“What other circumstances have troubled you ” 

“ There are several.” 

“ For instance ? ” 

“Your dislike of certain questions; your dread of 
being watched ; at night, your restlessness and mut- 
terings — ” 

“ I have spoken ? ” he cries. 

“ Never plainly; but you murmur and complain in 
your sleep and mutter broken words, without coher- 
ence, unintelligible — ” 

The shock has been severe ; it is some time before 
he can recover himself and go on. 

“ What else ? ” he grasps.. 

“Your constant fear of betraying yourself.” 

“ Betraying what ? ” 

“ I do not know, but — ” 

“But?” 


“ I am afraid ! ” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


329 


CHAPTER VII. 

The admissions he has drawn from her stagger him, 
revealing as they do such a critical situation. Even 
though she has as yet no knowledge of the actual 
truth, she is within an easy step of it ; any mishap, 
any ill-advised action on his part is liable to cause 
the truth to flash with fearful vividness before her at 
any time. Only the extent of her confidence in him, 
the depth of her tenderness and affection, have saved 
him thus far. 

Put on his guard by what he has learned, he can, 
to be sure, maintain a strict watch over himself and 
avoid a repetition of those words and actions which 
she has pointed out to him as arousing speculation 
and uneasiness ; he can carefully keep away from any- 
thing tending to add to the suspicions already brought 
about ; all this he can contrive by day, but how about 
the night? 

As yet he has not spoken — a terrible load was lifted 
from him when she replied negatively on this point — 
but he has sighed and murmured in his sleep and ut- 
tered broken words, incoherent and unintelligible. 
Ah, there is the danger ! 

How much would it take for these groans and sighs 
and broken words to become clear and Intelligible 
utterances, possessed of a distinct sense ? The least 
chance, a mere nothing, might bring this about, since 
it is evident that the cerebral conditions in his case 
are such that his sleep partakes pretty much of the 
features of somnambulism. Are these symptoms, he 
wonders, congenital, or acquired ? This he has no 


330 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


means of determining, but prior to the disturbances in 
his rest which ensued after the death of Mrs. Ward, 
he certainly had never had any reason to suspect that 
he talked in his sleep. Now, however, he has a 
positive confirmation that the vague fears which have 
troubled him for some time past on this score are only 
too well founded ; he talks, and although his words 
have so far not been understandable, they are liable to 
become so at any time. 

Without ever having followed up any special studies 
on the subject of sleep, he knows that persons while in 
a condition of somnambulism are remarkably suscep- 
tible to mesmeric influences and that by discoursing 
with persons who talk in their sleep one is very liable 
to partially hypnotize them. Doubtless he has not 
much to fear in this direction from Agnes ; but what 
is quite possible is that some night when he begins to 
sigh and mutter, she may not be able to resist the 
temptation to engage him in conversation and inquire 
as to the causes of his trouble. If she thus questioned 
him, what might he not say? 

Here is a contingency demanding, evidently, im- 
mediate attention, and one presenting complications 
by no rneans very readily overcome. True, it is only 
at night that Agnes is dangerous in this connection, 
and if he can only find some way of effecting a sep- 
aration from her at night, all will be well. During 
the day, if he only keep a close watch upon himself, 
he will have nothing to fear. Loving him as she does, 
there is no danger of her seeking of herself to foster a 
state of feeling dangerous to their mutual peace ; when 
she finds the features causing her uneasiness have dis- 
appeared and no longer recur, she will gradually regain 


PHILIP HENSON, M.D. 


331 


her former serenity and content and there will be a 
return once more of those sweet and happy days 
which followed their marriage. 

The first great, pressing necessity of the moment, 
however, is to effect a separation at night, and to 
devise a plausible excuse for this is certainly no 
easy task. To openly propose to Agnes to take up 
rooms apart, would indubitably be a move well calcu- 
lated to excite her surprise and to set her to speculating 
over a new mystery*. For quite a time he puzzles 
over this matter and, following out the idea that 
the question of separation must first^be opened up 
by Agnes, he at last hits upon a plan which 
seems likely to bring about that which he seeks to 
effect. 

In total ignorance of the fact that she has already 
been brought under the mesmeric influence, Agnes, he 
reasons, is doubtless still afraid of being hypnotized. 
If he again takes up this subject, what more likely 
than she may seek to protect herself by escaping from 
him at night, that being the time he would naturally 
select for the experiment. 

What he anticipates is realized. When, on the 
following day, he broaches the subject and declares 
that, positively, he will put her into the hypnotic state 
and ascertain where and how she suffers, she displays 
the same alarm and repulsion as before. 

‘‘ Everything you have ever asked of me I have 
always done,” she exclaims, struggling to keep down 
her feelings ; “ your wish has always been my wish ; 
but that I will never consent to.” 

“As your opposition is foolish, I shall not let it 
stand in the way.” 


332 PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 

“You don’t mean to say you will do it in spite of 
me!” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“ It cannot be done.” 

“You are mistaken.” 

Without further argument, he hunts up a book and, 
after searching through it for some time, reads the 
following passage : 

“ The question has at times been raised as to 
whether it is possible to transform natural into hyp- 
notic sleep without arousing the sleeper. Experi- 
ments in this direction have shown that this is 
possible, at least with certain subjects.” 

He hands her the book, so that she may for herself 
confirm what he has just read. 

“You see,” he cries, triumphantly, “in order to 
mesmerize you, I have only to quietly take advantage 
of the time when you are asleep ; it is simple 
enough ! ” 

“ That would be monstrous ! ” 

“ Pshaw I mere foolish fancy.” 

His words have thrown her into such a state of 
fright that all that night she stays awake, nervous and 
on the watch against any attempt at the execution of 
his threat. He, also, does not dare to sleep for fear 
of talking and both lie through the long hours of the 
night, secretly watching each other, each keenly in 
fear the one of the other. A feeling of fatigue and 
drowsiness comes over Agnes ; quickly she rouses her- 
self, fights against it and dispels it. Her eyeballs 
sting and burn for want of sleep ; a great lassitude is 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


333 


upon her; but before her float visions of Henson 
bending over her, his eyes fixed, with that peculiar 
concentration and intensity, upon her face, his arms 
twining about her in the mystic passes invoking this 
dreaded sleep — all this she sees, and holds herself 
awake. Henson, too, is weary and fain would rest. 
With strange perversity, sleep, so often backward, 
seems within his reach this night. Oh, for a few 
hours of sweet, refreshing slumber to give him back 
his strength of nerve and mind, and fit him to carry 
on the constant struggle he is called upon to wage. 
Sleep ! He rouses himself, at once keenly on the 
alert. Sleep, eh! Yes; and what will follow ? They 
— the spectres — will come from out their graves and 
turn and flit and hover about him ; once more he will 
see the old money-lender, sunk back in his chair, the 
blood spouting down over his emaciated body, and 
circling in great pools on the floor ; once more he will 
count the pulsations and keep track of the time as 
Bronk contorts in the death agony ; then, too, the 
other spectre, the one that lies so pale and still on her 
bed, who seems to present against him a sort of mute 
reproach, and whom he sees even oftener than Bronk, 
she, also, will come back, and his mind will only leave 
her to wander away to the man in the prison cell, all 
encircled with fantastic stripes, hideous convict’s 
stripes ; and then — then, he will gasp and complain 
and sigh and talk : yes, talk ! perhaps distinctly and 
intelligibly! Sleep, indeed! He does not dare to 
even think of it. And thus the dreary night drags 
through, until daylight finds them both exhausted, 
but still sleepless and on the watch. 

Henson realizes that this cannot keep up long. She 


334 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


will, he is confident, devise some plan for escaping from 
him at night and of enjoying her rest in security and 
undisturbed. All he fears is that he may have driven 
matters too far ; that she may be pushed to some act 
of desperation. What if she were to run away from 
him altogether? What would become of him without 
her, who is all to him in life ! He keeps down his fears 
on this point, however, by repeating to himself that she 
loves him too much for that. No ; she will simply do 
what he in the first place anticipated : find some 
excuse for getting away from him at night. 

It is precisely what happens. That evening she 
comes to him with the announcement that her mother 
is less well than usual and that she feels uneasy over 
her condition. She complains of dizziness and a sense 
of suffocation. Will he allow her to sleep in her moth- 
er’s room, in case she should be taken worse during the 
night ? 

Henson, at first, makes a show of opposing this 
arrangement, but after examining Mrs. Denton and 
prescribing for her, he admits that she is not quite so 
well as usual and gives in. By way of showing her 
appreciation of this concession, Agnes remains with 
him in his stu^y throughout the evening and when 
they finally part for the night, it is with all the affec- 
tionate demonstrations of lovers on the eve of quite an 
extended separation. 

He goes to his bedroom and locks the door. Now, 
he is in a position to sleep without misgiving ; though 
he sigh and moan and talk, there is no one to overhear 
any dangerous words which may escape him. His 
mother-in-law’s room adjoins his, it is true ; but there 
is hardly reason to fear that any sounds he may make 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


335 


will penetrate through the wall dividing the apart- 
ments. For to-night at least, he thinks, he may sleep 
in safety. To-morrow he will see if some reasonable 
pretext cannot be devised for making this separation 
of rooms permanent. 

How little he foresaw at the period of his marriage, 
he bitterly reflects, that it would ever come to this: that 
the time would come when he would find himself 
plotting to escape the companionship of this woman 
he loves, and the sense of serenity and well-being she 
has always brought him would be replaced by feelings 
of uneasiness and alarm. And all this has been 
brought about by his own fault, by a series of mis- 
steps and blunders for which he alone is to blame ; 
just as if it were decreed that all the tortures he suf- 
fers are to be self-inflicted, and that if ever he 
succumbs in the whirlwind amid which he battles, it is 
to be by his own act, by his own hand. What a piti- 
able discovery and concession for a man who has 
thought himself strong; who has believed that by the 
might of his own will he could direct the course of 
events and force life his own way ! 

After tossing about for some time, his mind filled 
with reflections of this nature, he at last drops into an 
uneasy, troubled sleep. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

When Agnes goes to her mother’s room to make 
preparations for retiring for the night, she hesitates 
for a moment as to the position in which she shall 


336 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


place the lounge upon which her improvised bed is 
made up. Shall she wheel it beside her mother’s bed, 
or shall she leave it in its present position along the 
wall separating her from her husband’s room? If she 
moves the lounge, she reflects, it will make a noise 
which may disturb her mother, who appears to be in a 
sound sleep, and she decides to leave it where it is. 
Perhaps, too, she is not entirely uninfluenced by the 
sentimental reflection that in the position beside the 
wall she will be so much the nearer him. 

Tired out by her watchfulness on the preceding 
night, she almost immediately falls asleep. The night 
is far advanced, in fact day is just beginning to break, 
when she suddenly awakens. It seems to her that 
there is a noise going on in her husband’s room. 
Somewhat startled, she puts her head close to the wall 
and listens. She was not mistaken ; she can hear his 
voice plainly, interspersed every now and then with 
sounds as if he were in pain. 

Quickly, yet carefully and quietly, so as» not to 
^waken and alarm her mother, she gets out of bed. 
There is just enough light to enable her to see with- 
out turning up the gas, and she makes her way out of 
the room and to the door of her husband’s apartment. 
Again she listens ; still the same sounds, which now 
come to her louder than before. She turns the handle 
of the door. To her surprise, it does not open ; it is 
evidently locked from the inside. 

A sudden fear chills her. What is going on in 
there? Only one idea is in her mind ; to get to him 
quickly and see if he needs help. Shall she beat on 
the door? No; that will only arouse the household 
and, since he has not responded when she turned the 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


337 


handle, perhaps he cannot, or will not, open. The 
rooms are in the front of the house and under their 
windows, she remembers, is a veranda. She will get 
to him by means of this veranda, even if she has to 
break a pane of glass in his window to get in. 

She returns to her mother’s room, throws a wrap 
over her shoulders, and steps out on the veranda. She 
finds his window down a few inches from the top and, 
with little difficulty, she manages to push up the 
lower sash and look in. He is lying on the bed, his 
face turned toward her, apparently fast asleep. For 
the moment he is perfectly still, and she stands for an 
instant irresolute, hardly knowing what to do. Pres- 
ently, however, the sleeper stirs and several rapidly 
articulated words escape him. One phrase she dis- 
tinctly catches : 

Forgive me, Agnes ; forgive — ” 

She steps into the room and advances toward the 
bed, all aglow with tenderness. Poor darling! he is 
dreaming of her. What is it he wants her to forgive? 
For having threatened to mesmerize her, doubtless 1 
Reaching the side of the bed, she bends over him 
and lightly kisses his forehead. As she recovers her- 
self, however, a cry almost escapes her as she catches 
sight of his face in the light of the breaking day. It 
is drawn and pale ; the features sharply contracted ; 
the whole expression one of deepest agony and terror. 
Before she can regain her self-possession, before she 
can make a move to arouse him, or bear him aid in 
any way, a fearful convulsion agitates his whole body 
and a loud, agonized cry breaks from him : 

“Your brother, or I—’' 

For an instant, she stands there aghast, petrified ; 


338 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


then, she staggers back, instinctively groping for the 
wall to save herself from falling, that one phrase ring- 
ing in her ears : 

“ Your brother, or I.” 

Again the sleeper moans uneasily and writhes upon 
the bed, and again the words come forth : 

“Condemned for me — through me— ah — for- 
give— forgive — ” 

For a time, she holds herself there, clinging to the 
wall for support, devoid of power to tear herself away, 
listening with frozen horror to the damnatory words 
which, intermingled with cries and moans and wails 
of complaint, pour rapidly from his distorted lips. 

At last, with a desperate effort, she staggers to the 
window, and, dragging herself back to her mother’s 
room, sinks to the floor, crushed, overwhelmed, half- 
fainting. 

Your brother, or I ! 

This, then, is the truth — the fearful and abhorrent 
truth — that truth which has been so long coming to 
her ; to which she has so obstinately closed her eyes. 

For a long time she remains there, on the floor, 
where she has fallen. It is only when the daylight 
comes pouring in, and certain sounds in the house 
indicate to her that the servants are already up and 
about, that she rouses herself and, going to her 
mother’s bed, awa'kens hen 

“I am going out,” she says. ^‘I shall not be back 
until after eleven o’clock.” 

‘‘ But, how about your husband, dearest?” exclaims 
Mrs. Denton. “ Won’t you be back before he 
leaves ? ” 

“Tell him, simply, not to wait for me.” 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


339 

At half-past eleven, after Henson has left, she 
returns. 

“Ah, back at last!” exclaims Mrs. Denton, joy- 
ously. 

At sight of her daughter’s face, however, she at 
once perceives that there is something very wrong. 

“Agnes — what — what is the matter?” she cries, in 
alarm. 

“ Something serious, very serious, but that cannot 
be remedied, alas! We are going to leave here, at 
once, never to return.” 

“ And your husband, what — ” 

“ Never speak of him to me again, mother ; unless 
you wish to grieve me and give me pain.” 

A sudden flush comes over Mrs. Denton’s face : 

“Ah, I understand,” she answers, sadly. “What I 
warned him of, what I spoke to him so earnestly 
about, has come to pass. I have seen this trouble 
growing for a long time past. From the strangeness 
of your husband’s manner whenever your brother’s 
name was mentioned, I have feared of late that our 
misfortune had come to be looked upon by him as a 
disgrace which — ” 

“ Do not let us discuss this further, I beg you, 
mother. It can do no good. Let us rather occupy 
ourselves with our preparations for leaving here for- 
ever.” 

“ But where are we to go ? ” wails Mrs. Denton. 
“ Oh, it comes so hard to find one’s self adrift at my 
age ! ” 

“ Do not fear, mother ; I have made all arrange- 
ments as to where we are to go. As for the future, I 
will care for that. Trust to me to make you comfort- 


340 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


able, and you surely will not be quite unhappy as 
long as you have me ! I have arranged matters with 
the servants ; I have told them we are suddenly called 
away. Won’t you, there’s a dear little mother ! over- 
look the girl while she packs and see that she takes 
away only what belongs to us. And, mother — none 
of the clothes, the jewels, nothing that I have had 
since — since — my marriage — do I want taken. Please 
see to that for me. In the meantime, I have some- 
thing to write.” 

An hour 'later, Mrs. Denton comes to the room 
where Agnes is writing to notify her that the packing 
is completed. 

“ I am ready,” answers Agnes. 

She encloses the letter before her in an envelope 
and lays it in full view on Henson’s writing table 

“ Come, let us go now,” she says. 

Outside a cab and an express wagon are waiting. 

As Mrs. Denton walks down the broad steps of the 
Madison Avenue house to the cab, leaning on her 
daughter’s arm, she sighs deeply and a pitiful expres- 
sion comes into her face : 

Lean more heavily on me, mother dearest,” whis- 
pers Agnes, caressingly ; you know I am very 
strong.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Henson, that day, is delayed until unusually late 
by the various consultations and calls to which he has 
to attend and it is quite late in the afternoon before he 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


34 


reaches home. As he approaches the house, he sees 
the letter carrier advancing from the opposite direc- 
tion. Almost simultaneously, they reach the stoop 
and the postman, recognizing "him, hands him several 
letters, among them one in a large, important-looking 
envelope, unstamped, but bearing the printed inscrip- 
tion in one corner : On Official Business. 

Utterly unmindful of the other letters, Henson fixes 
his eyes upon this envelope and the hand that holds it 
trembles. 

Does it contain another disappointment, or — 

With a nervous movement, he tears the envelope 
open. It contains two enclosures ; one an official 
document, the other, a letter written on the official 
paper of the Chief Executive’s Department, at 
Albany. It is from the governor’s secretary with 
whom Henson has a close acquaintance. The letter 
reads : 

“ My dear Doctor : I am glad to be able at last to 
send you good news in the matter of the Denton case. 
In view of the representations made in behalf of the 
prisoner by you and other highly-respected and influ- 
ential citizens, the governor has taken action. While 
he has not been able to see his way to granting 3. full 
pardon, he has decided, as you will see by the enclosed 
document, to extend a commutation of the term of 
imprisonment to five years. This, together with the 
usual commutation allowed for good conduct, will 
leave only a comparatively short time for the prisoner 
to serve. I may say to you, confidentially, that those 
interested in Denton must regard themselves, taking 
into consideration all the facts in this case, as fortu- 


342 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


nate in having secured this much, and that it is the 
very best that could have been hoped for under all 
the circumstances. 

“Hoping this news will give you pleasure, believe 
me, Yours, etc., etc.” 

Henson is too eager and impatient to ring the bell 
and wait until the servants come to the door. Draw- 
ing out his night-key, he hastily admits himself. He 
hurries through the hall and to the room where Agnes 
is most likely to be found. She is not there. In his 
eagerness, he calls her. 

“ Agnes ! ” 

There is no answer. Even in his present excite- 
ment, a slight feeling of surprise comes to him that 
she is not waiting for him, as usual, prepared to greet 
him upon his return. The official document in his 
hand, he hurries through the rooms, calling her : 

“ Agnes ! Agnes ! ” 

Still no answer. He reaches his study and, looking 
around, sees a letter lying conspicuously upon his 
table. At a glance, he perceives the writing on the 
envelope is in Agnes’s hand. With feverish haste, he 
opens it. It is a bulky letter, containing half-a-dozen 
pages of note paper closely written over. He reads : 

“ I have left, never to return. I know the truth. It 
has come to me, at last, and my despair and my dis- 
taste in life are such that, were it not for my mother 
and that poor being who suffers out there, I should 
end it all now. But, despite the horror of my situa- 
tion, I feel bound to think of them and not aggravate 
by any weakness on my part the trouble and sorrow 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


343 


about me. My mother is no longer young ; she is in 
feeble health and has suffered cruelly. Not alone do 
I owe it to her to soften by my presence her old age, 
to give her such comfort and support as lie within my 
power, but she must also have the knowledge that I 
am there to take her place and to receive some day, 
when the time at last comes, with open arms, her son 
— my brother. This is surely the least I owe them, 
to await this time faithfully, bravely ; and however 
weary, however abhorrent, life rhay in the future 
prove to me, I will bear up, I will not falter, so that 
unfortunate, that outcast, whom a merciless fate has 
so cruelly dealt with, may on his return find awaiting 
him a hearth, a home, a welcome, a friend. This 
henceforth will be my one object in life, my sole 
reason for existing, and my thoughts will ever reach 
out to the hour which will restore him to me, him to 
whom I will give more than a sister’s love, whom I 
will cherish with such tenderness as a mother gives to 
her child, in the desperate hope that this love, this 
tenderness may in some slight measure heal his 
wounded heart and bring him to forget. I realize that 
long and weary years stretch between me and that 
momentous hour, that long and bitter suffering re- 
mains yet to be endured ; but this interval I shall 
employ in toiling for him, my brother, this dear one 
who will come back to me worn, broken, aged ; but 
whom I hope to make believe that there still exists 
something that is true and good ; that all in this world 
is not utterly evil, corrupt, infamous. A long and 
arduous task will this doubtless be, for he will return 
to me overwhelmed with twenty years of suffering, of 
degrading and unmerited suffering. How will he have 


344 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


borne them, these twenty years ? What efforts, what 
persuasion, shall I not have to exert to convince 
him that he must not give himself over to bitter- 
ness and despair ; that there yet remains anything in 
life for him to believe in, to live for. How shall I 
succeed in this? How shall I contrive to instil hope 
and some faint rays of happiness into this poor heart 
so sorely tried, so deeply embittered against all ? In 
this work, God will, perhaps, come to my aid; He will 
doubtless inspire me with the means of accomplishing 
this task, which at the present tjme seems to me well- 
nigh hopeless. Even now, have I not already to 
thank Him that, except for my mother and my 
brother, I am alone in the world ; that I have no chil- 
dren, and am thus spared the terror of seeing them, 
perchance, grow up into evil and their minds, energies, 
talents given over to dishonor and deceit. 

“ I leave your roof as I came under it ; poor girl I 
was, poor woman I go away. None of the jewels and 
objects of luxury and value your liberality has 
bestowed upon me, do I take hence. I return them, as 
also all the property of every kind with which you 
have endowed me. I take nothing with me beyond 
that which was mine before my marriage, and I forbid 
you to make any attempt to change my decision in 
this respect, or my determination to fly from you. 
Nothing can ever unite us again ; nothing shall ever 
again unite us ; no contingency, no consideration, no 
necessity whatsoever. I reject the past, the guilty past, 
which weighs so heavily on my conscience, and, were it 
only possible, I would efface it from my memory. I 
have severed the bonds between us, and henceforth we 
shall be as widely separated from one another as if 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


345 


one of us were dead, more so even. You need have 
no scruple over leaving me to face the world alone. 
Work is not distasteful, or unknown to me, and I 
shall be enabled to make my way now, as I did before 
I knew you. So as not in any way to compromise you, 
and to become the more my former self, I shall resume 
my own name — a dishonored name, but one of which 
I shall not be ashamed. 

“You may, perhaps. In looking over the past, think 
me hard ; but you must at least concede that my 
withdrawal is not without its benefit to you. I am no 
longer good to you for anything, and the repose of 
which you have such urgent need would henceforth be 
impossible with me. After all, then, it is best for you 
that I should go. Seek, as I shall seek, to forget ; and 
if in course of time you succeed in effacing from your 
life the memory of the period during which I crossed 
it, you will, perhaps, be able to put aside the 
rest and regain something of the calm of former 
days. 

“ I cannot recall that I have loved you, for my 
position has that in it which forbids such memory — 
that precludes my knowing even such happiness as 
recollections of the past may give. Thus, at my age, 
I find myself alike without past as without future; 
even that slight source of consolation — the living over 
again in memory the joys of the past — is lacking in 
my case, with all the rest. At times when my sorrow 
weighs most heavily, I may not lay it aside to take up 
the recollection of some hour when life was sweet and 
bright for me ; on the contrary, it is those very hours 
that make me shudder, and with which I reproach 
myself as with a crime. Thus, whichever side I turn, 


34 ^ 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


I find only darkness, pain, regret ; for me, all is 
blighted, tarnished, sullied. 

“ The greatest boon I may await, or hope for, then, 
is that dulling of memory which time may bring ; is 
that I may at least in some degree — forget.” 

He reads this letter, written evidently with one rapid 
dash of mind and pen, standing beside the desk in his 
study. Arrived at the last word, his arm falls to his 
side, and he remains for aii instant staring wildly, 
helplessly, about him. His chair is pushed away some 
little distance from the desk ; he staggers back and 
lets himself drop into it, still holding the letter tightly 
clutched in his hand. 

Alone ! 

The shadows gather thick about him and darkness 
sets in ; but still he sits there, white faced, hollow 
eyed, without motion, one plaint, faint as a whisper, 
issuing now and again from his lips : 

Alone ! 


CHAPTER X. 

It is a foggy, inclement afternoon of the Fall and 
yet there is a notably full attendance at the session of 
the Medical Congress, convened at New York, and the 
Metropolitan Opera House is filled to its utmost ca- 
pacity. Not only is there an unwonted excitement 
among the delegates on the floor of the house, but 
in the galleries, thronged with spectators, there are 
marked indications of interest and expectancy. Quite 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


347 


a number of ladies, too, are present, evidently inspired 
with an ardent curiosity to catch a glimpse of the 
celebrity of the hour, the famous scientist whose 
discoveries have recently made such a stir, and the 
announcement of whose lecture before the Congress 
that afternoon has drawn together this crowded assem- 
blage and is the cause of all this excitement and inter- 
est. 

The distinguished lecturer is escorted to the front 
of the stage by the presiding officer and introduced 
in a brief address, couched in terms of the most flat- 
tering eulogy. A great wave of applause sweeps over 
the crowded house as he makes his introductory 
bow — applause so enthusiastic and prolonged as to 
form a greeting of which the most ambitious public 
man might well be satisfied and proud. The lecturer 
begins his address, developing his points with a pe- 
culiar clearness and force, and as he proceeds the 
applause breaks out from time to time anew, until at 
the close of his peroration it partakes of the character 
of a veritable ovation. 

The session over, the lecturer is surrounded by 
admiring colleagues, many of them themselves widely 
known, who warmly shake his hand and overwhelm 
him with congratulations. It is some time, long after 
the great body of the audience has drifted away, 
before he can escape from these flattering attentions, 
these evidences of popularity and esteem that are being 
showered upon him, and make his way to the street. 
Gn the sidewalk, in front of the opera-house, a small 
knot of people is gathered, discussing various events 
in connection with the session. 

Presently the lecturer, free to leave at last, appears 


348 


PHILIP HENSON, M.D. 


in one of the. doorways and stands for a moment look- 
ing up the street, evidently in search of his carriage. 
Now that the excitement of the public address is 
over, there is a peculiar listlessness in his bearing-, a 
heaviness and lack of buoyancy which seem strange in 
one who in point of years, at least, is evidently still in 
the prime of his strength and manhood. He is a large 
man, tall and strongly built, yet somewhat stooped ; 
with a pale, thoughtful face lighted up by blue eyes 
which diave a hard and at the same time a certain 
yearning, almost pathetic expression. It is Henson — 
looking older by many years. 

As he stands there, two men detach themselves 
from the group on the sidewalk, and Halford, accom- 
panied by Benwell, comes forward to shake hands 
with him. Henson greets them with somewhat more 
warmth than is usual with him. 

“ Let me congratulate you,'’ exclaims Halford, 
“ upon the success of your lecture ; upon your success 
in your discoveries ; in a word, upon your success in 
everything.” 

Henson looks at the speaker for a moment ; then a 
sigh escapes him : 

“ Thank you,” he says, simply. 

“ Let me also acknowledge an error and proffer my 
apologies to you.” 

“ Tor what } 

“ Upon a certain occasion, a long time ago, I criti- 
cised you to our friend here, Benwell, for thinking 
yourself mightier than the course of events, for believ- 
ing yourself stronger than Circumstance. You were. 
With everything against you, as I know it was at that 
time, you have beaten down all obstacles, conquered 


PHILIP HENSON, M. D. 


349 


all difficulties, forced the course of events entirely 
your own way. Accept my congratulations.” 

Again Henson sighs. For a moment he seems on 
the -point of replying, but checks himself and says 
nothing. For some time longer he stands there talk- 
ing to them, and then, slowly crossing the sidewalk, 
enters his carriage, which has come dashing up and is 
now awaiting him beside the curb. A moment more, 
and he is being driven down Broadway. 

Halford and Benwell stand looking after the disap- 
pearing carriage : 

“ I remember him,” says Halford, reminiscently, 
when he was a young reporter at our news bureau at 
Police Headquarters, working for a salary of thirty or 
thirty-five dollars a week. What a rise ! What a 
superb success ! ” 

“ He always was ambitious,” comments Benwell, 
“ and now he must certainly have attained the utmost 
he could ever have wished for. He must now, surely, 
be contented and indeed a happy man.” 

“ Yes ; a contented and a happy man ! ” 

And at the moment, this “ happy man ” is sunk 
back on the seat of his carriage, gazing down at a 
little case containing a portrait — that of a woman — 
which he ho^'^s in his hands. Upon his face is a look 
of deepest desolation and despair. 


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